A Question Of Allegiance
by JScorpio
Summary: Captain Bordon,Colonel Tavington,two original female characters, Betsy Burwell,daughter of rebel Colonel Harry Burwell and Prudence Lincoln,daughter of General Benjamin Lincoln, suffer through sacrifice and learn about life and loyalty as they experience war, which tests their allegiance and trust. Mature Content. In progress. Enjoy!
1. Prologue: A Looming Change Of Scenery

Prologue: A Looming Change Of Scenery 

_New Jersey May 1776….._

William Tavington took a couple of coins from the dressing table and gave them to the pretty little bawd in his tent. She clasped the silver in her hand and smiled up at the tall officer.

"Thank you, sir." She moved toward the doorway of the tent just as Tavington stepped back to the small dresser. He had already dipped the linen into the cold, clean water and was rubbing the cloth over his bare torso when he heard the whore, whom he thought had left already, speak up.

"Again tonight, Colonel?" The girl was hoping to set up another meeting with him. The officer paid well and was a good lover.

William, wet rag in hand and still washing up, answered hesitantly. "Maybe." The man wasn't sure if he'd be in camp tonight or not; he never knew.

The doxy bobbed her head of raven curls slightly then dipped into a curtsey. Then equally as fast, she disappeared from the tent.

The colonel finished washing in a few moments, dipped his hands into the water to wet them then ran his fingers through his long hair. He combed through his damp tresses then walked to his desk.

The officer sat down and pulled his dark mane over one shoulder and began to braid it. As he did, his eyes fell on the dispatch he'd received yesterday afternoon, still open on his desk. He re-read the thing as his fingers worked his hair into a tight queue.

_You are to split your regiment into two units, and as per your advice, Major Tarleton will command the second legion. _

_He has been promoted to Lieutenant Colonel for this. _

_You are to take your legion into the Carolinas and make your new home base at_

_Fort Carolina, near the border between the two colonies. Tarleton's legion will_

_stay in New Jersey and the vicinity. _

_Resume all usual duties once there. Form an intelligence network when you _

_arrive and please recruit some locals!_

William chuckled to himself for his suspicion had been correct. The British were having success in securing and subduing the northern colonies. General Howe and the army had the situation firm in hand there, winning most of the battles and keeping the rebels under some kind of control.

And, they had a firm foothold in the Northwest Territory, which while still part of Canada, had formerly been French. The English controlled this since the war ended back in the 1760's, and enforced the treaty making it the King's territory. The forts in the area were under the auspices of Governor Henry Hamilton, sitting secure in his fortress at Detroit. The savages were terrorizing the settlers already there, scaring others from moving there, and the French in the region were allied to the British lest they lose their scalps.

Tavington and his officers had suspected that the next move was probably into the southern colonies, securing the deep water sea ports and rich plantations. And now here they were, getting ready to move to that area.

William rose from his seat and walked the small chest of drawers and pulled out a clean white shirt. He pulled it over his head and was beginning to button it when there was a knock at the tent door.

"A dispatch for you, sir," the young private said.

Tavington took the message in his hand and quickly unfolded it. His eyes read the few lines quickly. "Damn," he swore under his breath as he walked to the doorway.

Sticking his head out of the tent, he saw Lieutenant Wentworth talking to the blacksmith as he stood near his horse, pointing to one of the beast's front feet. The young officer turned his head slightly and caught sight of his commander motioning for him to come to his tent.

As he trotted over, Tavington had grabbed one of the other men nearby. "Private Kinney, please ask Captain Bordon to report to me at once."

"Yes sir," the young man said, leaving just as Wentworth arrived.

"Good morning, commander."

"Good morning, Lieutenant. I need you to get the men into shape now. Seems that General O'Hara is arriving today for inspection," he announced, holding up the dispatch for the young officer to see.

"Right away, sir," he complied. As he turned to leave the tent, he nearly bowled over Private Kinney, who had returned.

"Uh….sir….Captain Bordon is indisposed right now and unable to report—"

"Indisposed?" the colonel asked indignantly. How dare one of his officers not answer a command. William took the private's comment to mean that the young soldier was hesitant to disturb an officer that was probably in the arms of a whore.

"By God, he is not going to tarry the morning away with a doxy," Tavington swore as he tore out of his tent in only his breeches and shirt hanging loose still. Lieutenant Wentworth and Private Kinney were on his heels as their commander blazed a path straight to Bordon's tent.

"I'll throw the strumpet out of there myself if I have to!" he seethed as he arrived at the front of the officer's tent. He tore back the flap expecting to see a trollop on top of his subaltern, but was surprised to see the man lying still on the ground of the tent.

All three men looked down at Captain Hugh Bordon, his tent a mess with things strewn about him. A bottle of whiskey and a glass lay toppled onto the ground beside him. The man had obviously had either a hard night or one Hell of a good time, Tavington thought.

"Private, what is my aide de camp doing down there?"

"Passed out cold, sir."

"And _why_ is he out cold?" Tavington asked somewhat sarcastically, wanting to know if there had been some trouble.

"Too much whiskey, colonel."

"You're dismissed, private. Thank you."

William and his lieutenant stepped into the tent, careful not to step on any of the mess or the captain. Tavington heaved a hard sigh. "Good Lord, is my third officer a drunkard?"

"Uh….no sir," Wentworth answered. "I think he had a bad time of it yesterday."

"Why is that?" asked the colonel, always wanting to know if trouble was rearing its head in his unit.

"His wife and young son died recently."

"When?" Tavington asked in surprise. He hadn't been apprised that the captain was widowed or even married, for that matter.

"In this last year, before he left England to come here," replied the lieutenant. "I believe she was with child as well, when she became ill."

William noticed Bordon's diary laying on the ground, askew and obviously thrown or fallen from his desk. Tavington bent his tall body down and picked the book up. He flipped through it quickly, finding yesterday's date, hoping it would yield a clue as to what had caused one of his officers to drink himself into oblivion last evening. He read the short passage silently:

_"My darling, I can scarce believe you and little Robbie have been gone a year now._

_Oh why? I miss you both so much. The rigors of duty can't even subdue the pain in _

_my heart for you both. Why? I don't understand. Why? Why were you taken from _

_me? Why did you have to die? My God, I love you so much."_

Colonel Tavington closed the diary and threw it onto the cot that Wentworth had just set upright, speaking as he did. "Well, there you have it," he disclosed to the lieutenant. "Hmm. It was the first anniversary of their death yesterday."

"No wonder he's passed out," Wentworth commented.

"Yes, well we've got to sober him up before General O'Hara arrives," Tavington advised.

The colonel looked out of the tent and spotted Private Kinney, who hadn't gone too far since being dismissed. "Private," he called. The soldier hopped back over to his commander.

"Sir?"

"Please brew some coffee. Make it strong."

"Yes colonel." The man then dashed away to begin his task. Tavington ducked back into the tent.

The commander knelt down and turned Bordon over onto his back, then cupped his hands under the unconscious officer's armpits.

"Help me, Wentworth," he directed. "Get his legs."

"Yes sir," the junior officer answered. "What are we going to do with him?"

The two officers soon had the captain lifted off the ground and began carting him from the tent. "Toss him into the creek," Tavington answered as they moved toward the stream. "The cold water should wake his arse up."

/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/

_Virginia May 1776…._

Colonel Harry Burwell, a serious man that didn't smile or laugh much, sighed as he looked at the map spread out across the desk in his tent. His second in command, Lieutenant Colonel Artemus and his third officer Major Zeller stood a few steps away, watching their commander silently, his back to them.

Their leader soon turned back to them and continued on with the briefing. Looking at Artemus he announced, "While I'm away, you will be in charge. I will send word to the Generals regarding this. In turn, if you have questions or need assistance, do not hesitate to call on them."

"Yes, sir," Colonel Artemus assured.

Harry looked at the younger of the two officers before him. "Major, you will accompany me. It is my plan to have us back here before August. The primary stop will be the South Carolina Assembly in May, however the Generals would like us to visit a few other towns as well. Their request was to stop at anyplace we felt may be strategic."

The commander turned back to his adjutant. "Artemus, see if Colonel White will grant us a small detachment of his dragoons to escort us into the Carolinas. As many men as he can spare."

"Yes, sir." With that, Colonel Artemus bowed his head to his superior and ducked out of the tent. He left young Major Zeller behind, respectfully quiet as he received his orders.

"Zeller," Burwell said, "We'll plan on leaving in a day or two, as soon as a detachment is assembled."

"Certainly, sir," answered Zeller with a nod of his head. In an instant, he disappeared from the tent, leaving the colonel alone.

With that, Harry sat down at his desk and carefully pushed aside the map that lay before him. He placed a blank sheet of parchment in front of him and dipped his quill into the inkwell.

The man hesitated before writing, a smile finally breaking out across his face. Though there had been no warning, he was glad to have received the assignment to temporarily leave his command to go into South Carolina to make speeches, visit towns, and generally try to sway the locals into the worthiness of this war. Burwell was perfect for the job since he was a wealthy farmer from that colony with his family's roots deep into the local class of society. And though the colonel may not be able to spend an extended amount of time at his beloved plantation, he would be able to make at least a brief stop there. But he _would_ be able to spend a week or two at his home in Charles Towne. Better yet: his family could join him along the way and spend some time with him.

Harry closed his eyes as he tried to remember the last time he saw his wife pregnant, and how she had looked. It had been a few years. She was nearly six and a half months along now, and he had felt badly that he'd had not been with her during this time, having left for command just days after she'd conceived. He smiled again as he opened his eyes, anticipating seeing his wife and family again, and the birth of another child. The colonel began to write.

_Dearest Katy, _

_My God, how I miss you and our two children. I think of all of you every day. _

_I have good news. I have been temporarily reassigned from command here in_

_Virginia. I am coming home to South Carolina for a working furlough for the_

_next few weeks. My first stop is to be the Assembly meeting in Charles Towne_

_in May. Please leave the farm in the capable hands of Mr. Waldron and hasten_

_to our home in Charles Towne. Bring Steven and Betsy. _

_And, my dear, I believe Betsy is old enough now to start attending society events, _

_and Charles Towne will be a splendid place for her introduction to the _

_proper people….._


	2. Chapter 1: An Ideal Life

This is a llooonnnngggg chapter, and I do apologize for the length but just couldn't divide it. thanks ahead of time for staying with it!

Chapter 1: An Ideal Life

_Charles Towne late May 1776…_

Young Betsy Burwell arose still tired from her late evening before. She sat up in her bed for a moment, stretching and yawning. Then she stayed still for a minute trying to shake the sleep from her eyes and head. After a time, when she was fully awake, the girl looked over to the open window and was amazed that, at this early hour, just _how_ noisy the streets of Charles Towne were.

Miss Burwell was used to the peace of their family's country plantation, in the Piedmont near the border of North Carolina. It was quiet, with much room to roam. The family which consisted of her mother, Katy, father Harry, and her brother, 17 year old brother Steven, were in the city at their mansion there. The South Carolina Assembly was meeting and her father was to address them and assess their feelings about possible independence from England.

As she got out of bed, Betsy sighed as she remembered that the family's time together would end in a couple of days when her officer father would have to leave them to move on to duty in some other South Carolina town. She had enjoyed their two week reunion, and delighted in seeing her mother happy and seemingly worry free again in the presence of Colonel Burwell, happy to give up temporarily running a family and plantation for the war absent officer.

Her mother, Katy, was heavily pregnant at seven months. The woman, though she would miss Harry, was tired and weary carrying this child and would be glad to get the journey back to the plantation over with soon. Then she could rest somewhat and have the baby in the peace and quiet of the country, though her husband may not be there.

Betsy knew that her parents were thrilled to be having another child. And though the girl never doubted her mother and father's love for one another, she saw a renewed spark of romance between them with this pregnancy as the family reunited in Charles Towne.

The couple had pulled strongly together in hopes that they would have a healthy child this time. Katy had had several miscarriages, and had also mourned the deaths of Betsy's younger brothers in the last five years. At age 38, after 20 years of marriage to Harry, living through the death of two sons, the failed pregnancies, frequent absence of her beloved husband, Katy knew that this was probably her last chance at having another child. She had hoped to give the colonel another son.

The young girl walked across the room to the door and opened it. She looked out into the hallway and called, "Pansy! I'm ready to get dressed!" Then she waited a moment and heard no reply.

"Mother! I need help with my dress!"

No reply from her mama as well. Betsy closed the door and shook her head. _They're probably busy with some vendors on the doorstep or out in the kitchen building, she thought._

Miss Burwell went back to the dresser, where she shed her night dress and threw it over a nearby chair. She poured some clean water into the fine porcelain bowl and dipped a linen into it. The girl closed her eyes, sighed, and smiled as she ran the cloth over her body, the cool water refreshing on this already hot Charles Towne morning. After washing up, she then stepped over to the full length mirror to brush her hair. Betsy reached for the brush then stopped as she looked at her image in the glass.

The thirteen year old girl, nigh fourteen in two more months, looked intently at her naked body. She was amazed at how her figure, still somewhat straight like a board, lithe and a bit boyish, now possessed new assets that she did not have before. Seemingly overnight, her once flat chest now had small rounded breasts. They reminded her of little green apples, as she judged the size, with light pink nipples, so fair in color was the pink that she thought it must be the shade of a fairy's wings.

Her eyes traveled lower to her belly button, then below, to where a small patch of dark hair had appeared right over her womanly folds. She didn't like how the hair there looked and hoped that more would not grow.

She brought her eyes back up to her chest, all in all pleased that she was starting to look more like a woman. She grinned despite herself, amazed that these new small curves fit into a stay, and chuckled that a tightly laced corset made them look even bigger. She had learned that boys and men liked to look at that area of a woman. As for the stay itself, she was still getting used to wearing one when she went out in public or for formal gatherings.

Betsy picked up the brush and ran it through her sandy brown hair. When she finished, she raked her fingers through the soft tresses. She concentrated for a moment on carefully twisting her locks into a loose chignon, which she quickly pinned to the back of her head. This was just another thing to get used to as a young woman: wearing her hair up in public. As a proper society lady, she would no longer be able to get away with wearing her hair down and long as little girls were allowed to.

Young Betsy Burwell had other strange stirrings within her young body and mind. Indeed the girl had romantic inclinations that seemed to move her heart and mind, as well as leaving her body breathless, flushed and tingly. She now seemed to notice handsome men and boys, and had imaginings of a traditional courtship with them. The girl recollected how only two days ago over tea, her mother had talked privately with her about betrothal and eventual marriage.

Katy had confessed to her daughter of Harry's desire to have the girl betrothed and married to some tidewater gent from a wealthy family with good upbringing and society connections. Her mother told her that the match would be someone of her father's choosing, and he would have the final say on _anything_ regarding a marriage. When Betsy asked who her papa was thinking of, her mama imparted that he had a couple of young men in mind, but she knew not who.

Mrs. Burwell informed her that she may or may not love the man. The woman advised her young daughter that once the decision was made, that it would be to Betsy's advantage as a future wife to get to know her suitor, and at least try to culture some feelings of fondness for him to make things easier. Her mother also disclosed that sweet feelings for him would make it easier in their bedroom when her future husband may decide to make certain demands of her. Katy didn't explain about "the demands", and Betsy didn't ask.

Instead, Betsy asked more of the matters of the heart, she recalled. "Did you love father when you married him?"

"No," her mother answered, "because we had been friends and playmates and only that since we were young. We had done nothing but play together childishly in games, and I would run from him when he would tease me with spiders and frogs and snakes."

Betsy closed her eyes for a moment, remembering how she had listened closely as her mama told of falling in love with her father eventually.

"But, I found romantic feelings for him when I saw him in his uniform days before our wedding," the woman sheepishly admitted. "And that, over time, turned into love when I saw him as a husband, then a good father. I've grown to love him even more deeply with each passing day. I love his bravery and his depth of conviction over certain things."

The girl knew her mother was referring to her father's stalwart feelings on independence in the colonies and a new nation. Betsy had seen him jailed a couple of times over not cooperating with the King's authority. The young woman had also experienced his being away from home for long periods with his military duty, and more recently, as he had become a commander in the colonial regulars.

Miss Burwell didn't share the same feelings of admiration of Colonel Burwell's political convictions as her mother did. Indeed she could scarcely understand the motives behind the revolution. The young girl despised her papa's sometimes long absences; she loved him and wanted him to be home.

Betsy was also not keen on her officer father's devotion to the cause and being one of its commanders. She sometimes felt that he loved the military and the cause of freedom more than his own family. But when she would think this and begin to feel upset, she would try to brush the thought quickly from her mind, not wanting to dwell one more moment upon it. The thing the young girl wanted most was for the war to end, and her father back home with them on the plantation, just being a farmer and businessman.

Betsy turned from the mirror and crossed the room to the wardrobe. She pulled a respectable looking pink and gray dress from within then walked back to her bed, laying the garment out on it. She sat down on the edge of a nearby chair and pulled her delicate stockings on her thin legs. then drew her lacey white shift over her head and down her lithe body.

Again she made her way over to the door and opened it. She peaked out into the hallway both directions hoping to catch sight of her mother or the servant.

"Pansy! I'm ready for help with my stay!"

"Yes miss!," the servant called back from somewhere in the house. "I'll be there right soon as I finish up with the master's bed linens."

"That's fine. Thank you," replied Betsy as she closed the door again.

The girl walked over to the chaise lounge situated under the window and stretched out on it as she waited for help dressing. She closed her eyes when a cool breeze came in through the window and slid like silk over her skin. Her eyes still closed, a lazy smile spread across her face as she recollected the night before.

Her family had attended a lavish ball at the Middleton's Charles Towne mansion. It had been the first party she had been allowed to go to as a young lady now ripe for potential suitors. And though she'd danced with many men that evening, she had enjoyed dancing with one young man in particular. He was a soldier for the Virginia uniformed militia and the young girl was smitten from the first sight of him.

Major George Rogers Clark was down from Virginia by request of Governor Henry to observe the climate for war and politics in this very cosmopolitan southern city. He was recently back from the Northwest Territory where he had been a land surveyor, and making somewhat of a name for himself. He was a very tall, solid, and handsome young commander with hair of copper red, sometimes looking like fire.

The twenty three and one half year old gent was the son of John and Ann Rogers Clark, the second eldest of ten children. The Clarks lived in Virginia and were wealthy planters; a well known family with good society connections. But George had proved to be their wild child.

An adventurous youth with no fear and huge ambition, he left home at age nineteen to travel down the Ohio River into the heart of the British controlled Northwest Territory and savage Indian country just to "have a look at the land." He made frequent surveying trips there and back for Governor Henry to plat out tracts of land. The land was offered at cheap prices to any buyers. When war broke out in 1775, he hurried back to Virginia where he joined the militia and quickly rose through the ranks.

At the party, young women had thronged about the popular officer, wanting to be regaled with his stories of bravery on the wild frontier. But he broke away from the crowds of admirers several times during the night to dance or chat with Miss Burwell. Betsy remembered that for as tall and imposing as this young man was, he was an excellent dancer. She recalled how gently, yet firmly he spirited her across the dance floor in his strong arms.

Yes, Betsy Burwell had been at ease in his company and enjoyed it. She was genuinely sorry to see the evening end and leave Major Clark's company. The girl had to admit that she was absolutely taken—infatuated—with this with the young officer who was ten years her senior. She could scarcely believe that he had not been snatched up by some Virginia society lady and married already.

The girl noticed that Clark had spent part of the evening conversing with her parents, and she wondered what had passed between them. By all accounts, Harry Burwell was fond of the young man as most of the tidewater colonial officers were. He had indeed distinguished and endeared himself to all with his daring accomplishments and conquering charm.

Betsy sucked in a sharp breath, shivering as she did, recalling the feeling of her hand in his, and the innocent nearness of her body to his as he held her in his arms while dancing. She made a decision right then that if the Major should ask to court her, she would accept—with her father's permission, of course.

A knock at the door brought the girl out of her reverie. With a disappointed frown, she answered, "Come in."

Pansy the servant trotted into the room and straight over to the bed. Betsy stood as the woman got quickly to work at helping her dress. The older lady wrapped the corset about the girl's thin body and began lacing and pulling, and repeating the same over and over.

"Umph," Betsy puffed as she gripped tightly the top edge of the high footboard of the bed lest she be pulled to and fro as the garment was laced. Miss Burwell was still admittedly learning to breathe in a tightly laced stay. And as Pansy drew the strings as tightly as possible, the girl looked at her body transforming into young curves in the mirror, courtesy of this piece of material bodily entrapment.

Betsy smiled as Pansy finished off the lacing, the tightness heaving the small, rounded orbs of her chest up to form a proper and bountiful looking bosom for potential suitors to coyly inspect. The girl stood still a moment, taking a couple of shallow breaths to steady herself lest she pass out from the tightness of the garment.

Pansy gathered up her nightdress and began making the bed. "Did you have a nice time at the party last evening," asked the servant, making conversation as she attended to her duties.

A slow, serene smile crept across Miss Burwell's face. She could feel herself starting to blush and quickly, nonchalantly turned away from the servant, not wanting to reveal any of her girlish feelings to the older woman.

"Yes," she answered, "I had a _wonderful_ time!"

/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/

Colonel Harry Burwell and Major George Clark, both in crisp, clean, blue and buff colored uniforms of the Colonial Regulars, watched at the crowd filed into the large meeting room in one of the many old buildings in Charles Towne. The throng had soon filled it to standing room only, anxious to witness the vote on whether or not South Carolina should enter the war. The May morning was already hot, and the crowd just served to drive the heat higher.

Harry looked about the room and noticed the heads of many of the area's prominent families dotting the assembly. He saw the Rutledges, Horrys, Pinckneys, Draytons, Hugers, Laurens, and Haynes. He even saw Mr. Middleton there, looking prim and proper, not showing a sign that he had overindulged to the point of delightful drunkenness at his own party last evening.

Next, the colonel's eyes saw a tall figure, dressed immaculately and handsome in the clothing a wealthy man would wear. As the man smiled and bowed, greeting the people around him, Harry sighed in well hidden trepidation. He didn't know the young man well, but knew his face well enough to recognize James Wilkins. Burwell knew the man and his family had Loyalist leanings and hoped that young Wilkins wouldn't speak up publicly on the subject. The Wilkins' family winery and distillery were making a hefty profit supplying spirits to the redcoat army.

Burwell's eyes scanned the crowd across a few rows behind Wilkins and caught sight of the beautiful widow Charlotte Putnam Selton, wife of the late John Selton, and daughter in the Putnam family, both wealthy local families. Next to her sat her nephews, Gabriel and Thomas Martin, so Harry knew that their father, Benjamin, could not be far.

His eyes swept the room again, and quickly spotted his old soldier friend, sitting quietly, looking somewhat pensive. Though he and Ben had fought together on the side of the British years ago, Harry had no idea what stance Martin would take.

Colonel Burwell looked across the aisle from Martin to finally see his pretty and very pregnant wife, Katy, seated in the second row. She saw between their seventeen year old son Steven Marshall, his middle name after his mother's maiden name, and their daughter Betsy, looking like a proper young woman, yet still girlish.

Burwell had been so intent on looking about the crowd that he hadn't noticed that young George Clark had left his seat. The always affable and outgoing red haired officer had worked his way through the gallery, greeting people he had met at the Middleton soiree last night, impressing as he remembered their names. Harry watched the tall major as he walked comfortably about the room, stopping at last to greet Burwell's own family.

George stretched his long arm over the heads of the front row to take Mrs. Burwell's hand with a shake and a bow of his head. After acknowledging Steven, he then took Betsy's hand with a smile on his face that looked as if it was only reserved for her. As he bowed his head to her, he stole a secret and very quick glance at her youthful cleavage then lifted his eyes to meet hers.

"Good morning, Miss Burwell," he said politely, nodding his head to her. "I trust you had a delightful time at the party last night?"

"Yes, I did. Thank you." She smiled demurely and looked down quickly after her emerald eyes met his of sapphire, which had a playful look in them. The girl looked back up and saw her father looking at their exchange, studying it. She knew that as usual, nothing escaped her papa's notice.

Betsy looked back up at Major Clark's handsome face, his eyebrows raised and face held regally as some old world gentleman would. His eyes sparkled at her as he seemed to momentarily center all his attention upon her. With all the confidence she could summon to try to prove that she was a cultured young lady, she spoke.

"Did you have a nice time at the ball, Major?" she asked, returning the pleasantry.

"Yes," his face lit up a bit as a sly, yet roguish smile crossed his lips. "Very fine, indeed."

The copper haired officer then bowed to the Burwell family, turned, and strolled back to his seat. As he did, Betsy, not moving her head as not to be noticed, let her eyes follow the young man as he departed. Her lips parted slightly to let out an inaudible sigh of disappointment, wishing that she could have some more time to spend with the youthful officer to get to know him more. The short and polite exchange of greetings didn't seem to satisfy the girl, again leaving her to marvel at these new feelings that would rear their head from time to time as she matured into a young lady.

Miss Burwell soon saw her father and mother locking eyes on one another, a look of knowing passing between them. The girl quickly hoped her parents weren't suspecting that anything untoward had happened between their daughter and the young major last night. Surely, she surmised, they had to know known Clark to be nothing less than a gentleman, and that they must have seen that she had conducted herself in a lady like, yet shy way last evening, just as they had wanted her to.

Harry pulled himself away from his silent conference with his wife when he noticed the speaker moving toward his seat at the head of the room. Knowing that the meeting was about to start, he quickly sat down next to Major Clark. He leaned over to the young officer from Virginia and whispered, "Don't rush off after this is over. I have a matter of importance to discuss with you."

"Yes sir," George answered dutifully, wondering if the matter was business related, or one of personal importance. But those thoughts soon evaporated with the sound of a wooden gavel hitting wood.

With the assembly called to order, the crowd hushed politely as the speaker introduced some people about the room giving brief descriptions of the men. He ended his stodgy introductions with a last and very playful one.

"And if you haven't met this fire haired officer to my right, I have no doubt you surely will soon," said the speaker, his arm extended out to indicate just who he was speaking of. Young George Rogers Clark was surprised when he looked up to see the speaker gesturing to him, not thinking he would be since he was just down to observe and not on the agenda to speak.

The speaker continued on. "He has been the guest of every gathering of late in this town, and has become a very popular young man. He is surrounded by crowds everywhere he goes—especially female admirers."

The crowd laughed and so did George, who then smiled warmly to the assembly as he stood and bent his tall frame into a gentlemanly bow. The red headed officer sat as the speaker gave a brief description of his latest exploits and genteel upbringing in Virginia, humbled and trying not to look embarrassed. The speaker finished the introduction with his own final and cordial greeting to the copper haired Virginian.

"Welcome, Major Clark."

"Thank you, Mr. Speaker."

With the introductions and the laughter out of the way, it was time to get down to the serious business of supporting or denying South Carolina's involvement in the war for liberty from King George.

Harry sat quietly through two speakers: a pacifist advocating peace; the other strongly advising to do nothing and stay out of everything. The colonel wasn't afraid to speak in front of people for he had to address his soldiers regularly. He was worried more about how they would take his advocating of war. The crowd had seemed strangely subdued during the other speakers and he hoped they would be equally as calm and hear him out as well. The officer hoped there would be no explosion during his oration either due to passion or the heat of the room.

Colonel Burwell looked again at the paper agenda and notes he held, knowing he was next to speak. He took a breath and stood as the crowd conversed amongst themselves in between the rotations.

Mr. Drew banged the gavel to get the attention of the crowd, which was growing restless. "Our next order of business—"

"_And our last_, if we vote a levy!" Mr. Simms interrupted sarcastically.

The crowd erupted at the remark, some laughing at the sarcasm, others trying to chime in with their sentiments. The speaker knew that to keep things moving, he had to keep a heavy hand on distractions. "Order! Order! Mr. Simms, you do not have the floor."

Speaker Drew hammered on the wood again. "Our next order of business will be an address by Colonel Harry Burwell of the Continental Army," he announced. "Colonel Burwell."

Harry turned and bowed slightly and respectfully to the speaker, then faced the crowd. With hands clasped behind his back, his eyes scanned the sea of faces before him.

"You all know why I am here," he began in a calm and even tone, "I am not an orator and I would not try and convince you of the worthiness of our cause."

The officer paused for an instant then continued. "I'm a soldier…and we are at war. From Philadelphia we expect a declaration of independence. Eight of the thirteen colonies have levied money in support of a continental army. I ask that South Carolina be the ninth."

Again Mr. Simms interrupted, seemingly unable to contain his thoughts. "Massachusetts and Virginia may be at war, but South Carolina is not."

"Hear, hear!" James Wilkins called in second to the remark.

"This is not a war for the independence of one or two colonies, but for the independence of one nation." Harry, good at reading men, knew that this last controversial remark of his would incite passion, so he stayed quiet, allowing the bunch to air out their excitement. He watched and listened, staying stoic and still in his spot, moving only to shift his weight from one foot to the other.

Mr. Wilkins stood and spoke up, airing his loyalist leanings, just as Harry had feared that he might. "And….uh…yes," James spoke up in a sarcastic tone, "what nation is that?"

"An American nation!" Mr. Howard from Pembroke shouted in answer.

"There is no such nation, and to speak of one is treason," Wilkins warned.

**"**We ARE citizens of an American nation!," shopkeeper Howard argued back proudly, "And our rights are being threatened by a tyrant three thousand miles away!" Peter Howard had lost his leg in a war injury years ago, and was now feeling the effects of taxation in his mercantile business.

Suddenly, Benjamin Martin, Harry's old friend and fellow soldier broke his silence and spoke up. "Would you tell me please, Mr. Howard," the farmer began as he faced the Pembroke shopkeeper, "why should I trade one tyrant three thousand miles away for three thousand tyrants one mile away?"

The question elicited laughter from the assembly, which Martin hadn't meant to be funny. The unintentional humor rankled Colonel Burwell, who kept his composure, although he was nearly glaring at his old friend. Harry stayed silent, sensing that Ben wasn't through yet.

"An elected legislature can trample a man's rights as easily as a king can," Martin calmly pointed out.

"Captain Martin," Harry spoke again, addressing his friend by his old rank from years ago, "I understood you to be a patriot." His tone was one of seriousness directed at Benjamin, clearly implying that the commander wasn't amused at Ben's comment.

"If you mean by patriot, am I angry about taxation without representation, well, yes I am," Martin clarified. "Should the American colonies govern themselves independently? I believe that they can, and they should. But if you are asking me, am I willing to go to war with England? Well, then the answer is most definitely NO!"

Colonel Burwell sighed heavily and looked down at the floor, flustered that this influential local farmer and his friend advocated against war. Harry tried hard to hide his disappointment.

Mr. Middleton weighed in. "_This_…. from the same Captain Benjamin Martin whose fury was so famous during the wilderness campaign?"

Benjamin replied in a split second to the question, offering and explanation and an excuse for his past behavior, of which he wasn't proud and hoped that people would forget. He was unhappy to find that this past action still haunted him. "I was intemperate in my youth—"

Middleton interjected just as quickly, unwilling to let the local farmer excuse himself. "Temperance can be a convenient disguise for fear."

Before Martin could defend himself again, Harry spoke up. "Mr. Middleton," he began as he took a couple of steps away from where he stood to walk toward the section where the planters stood, "I fought with Captain Martin under Washington in the French and Indian war. There's not a man in this room, or anywhere for that matter, to whom I would more willingly trust my life."

Colonel Burwell's face and eyes, complete with raised eyebrows, conveyed the sincerity of his words to the crowd . The commander turned and slowly paced back to where he stood just a moment ago.

"There _are_ alternatives to war," Martin pointed out. "We take our case before the King; we plead with him."

Harry turned quickly on his spot back to face the crowd and countered, "Yes, we've tried that—"

"Well then we try again and again, if necessary to avoid a war," Benjamin interjected.

The colonel stepped off his spot again, moving back toward where Martin stood. Harry cocked his head slightly to the right and seemed to momentarily forget that there was a crowd present. He looked directly at Captain Martin, addressing him as if they were the only two people in the room.

"Benjamin, I was at Bunker Hill," he began, his voice raised for the first time during this address. "The British advanced _three times_ and we killed over 700 of them at point blank range and STILL they took the ground. THAT is the measure of their resolve."

The colonel seemed to remember that he was before a crowd and not only speaking with Martin. He once again composed himself and returned to his calm and even tone. "Now if your principles dictate independence, then war is the only way. It has come to that."

The gallery cheered now, seeming now to sway toward the cause of war. But Martin quickly squelched their approval.

"I have seven children. My wife is dead. Now, who is to care for them if I go to war?" asked Ben, hoping to make a point.

"Wars are not fought only by childless men," countered Harry.

"Granted," conceded Martin, though the man was hardly finished. "But mark my words. This war will be fought not on the frontier or on some distant battlefield, but amongst us; among our homes. Our children will learn of it with their own eyes. And the innocent will die with the rest of us. I will not fight. And because I will not fight I will not cast a vote to send others to fight in my stead."

"And your principles?" queried Burwell, reminding the South Carolina farmer of what he had stated moments earlier.

"I'm a parent. I haven't got the luxury of principles," Martin said flatly.

With this, the crowd began to clamor excitedly. Some in the gallery left suddenly as if more answers and conflict lie outside the assembly room.

As the remaining crowd murmured around them, Katy Burwell suddenly felt her daughter gripping her hand tightly. She looked at the girl, who had an alarmed look on her face.

"What is the matter?"

"Is it really true Mama?" asked Betsy. "Will they fight near our home?"

"No, of course not," Katy replied, trying to assuage the girl's fear. "Father will keep us safe, you _know_ that. He will not let any harm come to us!"

Moments later, the meeting officially adjourned and the crowd filtered outside, but seemed to stay on the green and the steps of the building, as the votes for the levy were counted. There was a tension; no one wanted to leave as they needed to know right away what the results were.

Major Clark had been stopped at the top of the marble steps by a group of women all wishing to introduce themselves to the handsome officer. Much taller than the ladies and easily able to look over their heads, he soon spied Colonel Burwell off to the side, standing alone in the shade of a tree. George quickly excused himself and hastened to the senior officer's side.

"You wanted to speak with me, colonel?" Clark reminded.

"Yes," answered Harry. "How old are you now?"

"Twenty-three, sir."

"Why is it a young man your age isn't married yet?"

George Rogers Clark couldn't help but laugh at the question, then he smiled as if remembering some fondness from long ago. "My parents ask me that every time I return home. They ask the same of my older brother, Jonathon as well. He is twenty-five. Ma and Pa think we should both be settled with wives and a mess of Clark children by now."

The young officer went on, as the colonel listened intently. "My sister, Ann, is the only one who is married. She is twenty-one and already has two babes. And though my parents are happy with this, they're anxious to have a couple of male heirs bearing the Clark name."

"I can understand their sentiments," Burwell commented with a smile.

"I've been too busy soldiering to find a woman," George admitted.

"Since your parents goad you about this, I suppose they have someone in mind for you?"

"No. They haven't mentioned it. They only state that they want good matches for us all, which, I am sure, means wealth and society."

"My wife and I want the same for Steven and Betsy," Harry revealed, his words measured.

"I see, sir."

The colonel's next phrase was cautious, yet calculated. As he spoke, he looked across the green at Betsy, who was speaking with a group of girls, not taking his eyes off his daughter. "Do you suppose your parents would accept a South Carolina girl of wealth and privilege for a daughter-in-law?"

Clark smiled, now nearly sure of what the colonel wanted of him. "I think they would be satisfied with the match." He looked at Miss Burwell, across the lawn from him. She was a youthful, sprouting beauty now. The young man could only imagine how beautiful she would be in a few years, in her womanhood.

Burwell turned back to George, watching the major as he admired Betsy from across the way. "And you? Would you like a pretty young Burwell as a wife?"

"Certainly."

"Are you ready to marry?" asked Harry.

"My parents _know_ so," Clark replied, both men laughing at the comment.

"Yes, I suppose I am," George admitted, quickly reverting back to a serious demeanor. "I'm going to regret leaving here and not having the chance to spend more time with Miss Burwell. I had a delightful time conversing with her last night. I was completely at ease."

"I think Betsy was too," Harry pointed out. "Very well, then. I'll make a gentleman's agreement with you."

"Sir?"

"Katy and I aren't ready to let her go. She's not quite fourteen," Burwell divulged, " but yet, I know I must procure a good match for her."

"Colonel, may I speak freely?"

"Of course."

"My parents are ten years apart in age, same as your daughter and I," George began. "My own mother was fourteen when she was betrothed to my father. Then she married him at fifteen. _They've_ had a joyous marriage for twenty-six years. Why not plight the troth now?"

"She is still a bit young," Burwell explained, "and you are leaving to go back to the frontier, which makes you absent for a few months or a year."

"Yes, sir."

"So…..my deal is this," Harry commenced, "I pledge her to you, and in your absence, I promise not to grant her courtship to any other suitor—she will wait for you. When you return from your mission to the wilds, seek me out. At that time, I'll allow her betrothal to you and have a respectable dowry ready. Then after a short courtship, you two will marry just after she turns fifteen."

"Yes sir, that's suitable," Clark agreed, shaking Colonel Burwell's hand to cement the deal. "I agree to it. Only one thing, though."

"Yes?" asked Harry.

"Would you write to my parents and inform them of this. They will never believe me."

George soon took his leave of his future father-in-law and crossed the green toward Miss Burwell. He watched her intently as she talked and laughed with her friends. As he walked, he could scarcely contain himself after having been sworn to secrecy by Colonel Burwell not to speak of their bargain to anyone. After all, it would be Harry's honor alone to announce the betrothal when he saw fit. Clark was happy with the prospect of having Betsy as his wife and felt sure he would grow to love her. He thought about deflowering his young wife in their wedding bed, and tried to disguise a lascivious smile as he did.

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Katy Burwell sat alone on a bench under a large shade tree, watching the crowd as they milled about after the result of the levy vote, which carried, was announced. The heat and humidity was already stifling at midday and she fanned herself trying to find some relief. And though she bore her late life pregnancy stoically, she knew that summer was the worst season in which to be large with a baby. The woman knew that the heat and swelling of her belly would only get worse in the next couple of months.

As Mrs. Burwell tried to stay cool, she saw the three people she loved the most occupied at various points about the lawn, enjoying the social aspects of being back in Charles Towne, reuniting with people they didn't see regularly. Only moments ago, she watched with curiosity as her husband talked to the handsome, copper haired Major Clark, who towered in height over everyone near, including Harry.

When they parted company, she gazed at her pretty young daughter, now a ripe beauty, as she conversed with her friends. Katy watched questioningly as Betsy's friends bid her farewell, leaving the girl alone to talk with the good looking Clark. The woman looked on as George and her daughter talked and laughed together, the same as they had done last evening at the Middleton's ball.

Across the walk to her left stood her son, a near match for his father, talking and joking with Gabriel Martin. She was apprehensive watching this, just knowing that at any moment, she would watch Steven sign his name on the sheet which sat in front of a uniformed colonial who seemed only too eager to enlist soldiers.

Over to her far right, her eyes caught Benjamin Martin, whom she hadn't seen in what seemed liked years, talking with her husband. Mrs. Burwell couldn't help but notice that Ben's eyes didn't leave Gabriel as he spoke with Harry. In fact, she could not mistake the fact that Martin was glaring across the green at his son. Katy continued to look on as her husband spoke calmly to Martin, never showing any emotion.

Finally after what seemed an eternity in the heat, she locked eyes with Harry as he crossed the grass toward her. She sighed, relieved that he was joining her and hoping he would take her home so that she could lie down in the coolness of their bedroom.

The pregnant woman could not sit for one more moment and struggled to push her body up off the bench. Colonel Burwell saw this and hurried over to her, wanting her to stay off her feet.

"No," she waved him away, "I can't sit anymore. Please help me up."

Harry gave her his arm, which she gripped as he put his arm about her waist to steady her as she stood. "I'm missing out on all the good conversation and gossip," she said, glad to be standing.

Mrs. Burwell sighed. "You are a popular man this morning, Colonel Burwell."

The subtle hint that she'd missed sitting with him gave him a pang of guilt. "I'm sorry, my dear. I had to attend to business."

"With Captain Martin?" she asked, puzzled, since they hadn't seen the Martin family in awhile.

"Not really," admitted Harry. "He was upset. His oldest son just enlisted to fight, defying him, and he wasn't too happy about it. I was trying to comfort him. I assured him that I would see that Gabriel would serve under my command where I could keep him out of the fighting, making him busy as a quartermaster or courier."

"Oh no," Katy gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. "Steven did not enlist with Gabriel, did he? I saw the two talking, looking as thick as thieves."

"Of course not," her husband assured. "He knows better."

Katy recalled a couple of heated arguments in the past couple of years, in which father and son fought over Steven wanting to enlist to serve. She closed her eyes as she remembered Harry's firm refusal and threats of consequences if the boy did.

"Oh, Harry, you wouldn't really go through with it, would you?"

"What? You mean my promise to disinherit him? I meant it and I will do it. He knows his place is to stay home and protect you, Betsy and the new baby, and to run the plantation in my stead."

"Darling," she cajoled, "he is too much like you. You don't expect him to sit this war out while you fight?"

"Yes, I do," the officer answered firmly.

A moment of quiet passed between them as both looked about the area. Their eyes landed on Betsy, who was still talking with George Clark.

As she studied the conversation between her daughter and the young officer, Katy spoke. "By the way, you and Betsy have spent a great deal of time this morning with Major Clark."

Harry said nothing, smiling a bit and chuckling nearly under his breath. But it was enough to give him away to his wife.

"Pray tell, Harry, just what were you and the major conspiring about?"

"What makes you think that?" Burwell joked with another rare smile.

"Come now, Harry, we've been married twenty years. I can tell."

The colonel let out a laugh then wrapped his arms about his wife, kissing her, unable to contain his excitement.

"Harry!" she protested, gently pushing him away, wondering what people would think about their public display of affection.

"I brokered a match for our daughter. She will marry into the Clark family," he said, pleased with himself at the strategic union.

Katy's jaw dropped and her eyes rounded. "But she is so young."

"Yes, I know," the officer conceded, "You saw them last night, and now when you look at them, how much at ease they are in each other's company."

"But they only just met," she protested.

"Yes, but the opportunity was there," Burwell countered. "They are not betrothed yet, I just promised him that while he is gone on the frontier that I would refuse any other offers of courtship for her. I'll plight their troth when he returns, and she will be older by then."

Harry went on, convincing his wife of his plan. "Also, this assures that by not marrying her now, he can't take her away from us with him to the frontier, making it so that we would probably never see her again."

"I couldn't bear that," Katy shuddered.

"Nor could I," the colonel agreed. "As young newlyweds, they need to be near family and friends for help and advice, not alone out in the wilderness just the two of them."

Neither of them voiced what they were most afraid of: Betsy being kidnapped or killed by Indians if something happened to George, or if he couldn't protect her. They couldn't bear to think of her in a lonely cabin in the woods threatened by Indians….or Redcoats, since they controlled the region.

"Hopefully by the time he returns from the frontier," Harry guessed, "the man will have the wilderness out of his blood and be ready to settle down and make a proper home with Betsy."

"But you can't make him stay," Katy pointed out.

"No, but I can encourage it," answered the colonel. "I could use my influence to get him a commission here. Maybe part of Betsy's dowry could include some land nearby."

Katy smiled. "You always have everything in hand," she commented in a tone implying relief.

Her grin soon turned into a grimace as she gasped. "Oh," Mrs. Burwell winced, sucking in a breath.

"Are you alright?" Harry asked in concern.

"Yes," she forced a smile, looking up at her husband. Her hand dropped to her swollen belly, which she rubbed, trying to sooth the child within her. "He's awake now. I don't think he will be an assemblyman for her slept through the whole meeting."

Colonel Burwell placed his hand on his wife's middle, feeling the baby kick hard. "He's strong. He will be a soldier."

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**Author's note:** General George Rogers Clark was a real life Revolutionary War officer. He commanded the forces that took back the Northwest Territories from the British, effectively "closing the back door" so that the English could not get another foothold in the colonies there after losing the original thirteen. He was called "the Hero of the Northwest Territory" at that time and today is called the "Father of the Midwest." Clark had an audacious plan, put to Patrick Henry, that he would capture the forts in the Northwest Territory and get the area under rebel control. He did just that and took Governor Hamilton prisoner. His men loved him and followed him across the southern Illinois plains in the middle of stifling summer heat and humidity, and they marched across the same area in the middle of winter, crossing a swollen Wabash River, and spending days cold and wet in icy water, to surprise Fort Sackville and the town of Vincennes (Southwestern Indiana) and take it, and that is where Hamilton surrendered to him. He was an adventurous and brave officer who basically had no fear, and due to lack of men (he had a legion of 175—that's all) and no artillery, he had to use psychological warfare and the element of surprise to make up for the lack of manpower, and it worked! He was made a colonel when he conquered the frontier, then later a General. Like Nathanael Greene did, Clark, who was from a wealth Virginia family, financed himself and borrowed when needed, the money to pay for the campaign and his men as our fledgling government had no money. The government never repaid him, even though he had receipts and promissory notes, and his debtors called in the debts he borrowed from them, causing his wealthy family to pay off as much as they could, though Clark still ended up dying bankrupt from the war.

**For info on George Rogers Clark, visit: Go to my profile page here to access-website is at the top of profile- ffdotnet won't let me put a link to a website here. Facebook link is at the bottom of the profile page.**

You can also search the net for him and many fine articles come up.

My profile here has a picture of Clark at about age 26.

**Recommended Watching: A** great documentary about Clark from the History Channel exists and is still shown from time to time. It is from the "Frontier: Legends of the Old Northwest" series, and the one about Clark is called "Long Knives." It can be found for sale on Ebay and Amazon, and is still sold at the History Channel online store. It is a great watch! I think Esther has been putting up portions of this DVD on Youtube, which you can find thru the site listed above.

**Recommended reading about Clark**: A good biographical novel about George Rogers Clark (it is basically a biography but novelized—it is very accurate, the research was thorough) is "_Long Knife"_ by James Alexander Thom. Another book about the entire Clark family (George had 5 brothers and 4 sisters. All six brothers were officers and two of his brother-in-laws were officers, as well) is _"From Sea To Shining Sea"_ by James Alexander Thom. Both are very historically accurate bios, just put into novel form. These books are at libraries and still in print and selling at bookstores and online. Mr. Thom writes on his website that these have also just become available in "e-books" and able to download them to Kindles and Nooks and those types of things.


	3. Chapter 2: Innocence Shattered

**Author's note: Wow! What a response! So many of you reading this-thanks! Here is your update. In this chapter, the action progresses by one year in the two sections of it. I edited/proofread it very quickly so I apologize for any mistakes I didn't catch. I will try to proofread it again before I go to bed this evening and do corrections. Right now, I am knocking off of the writing to spend some time with the family the rest of the evening. Take care and thanks!**

**JScorpio**

_Eight months later….._

Chapter 2 Innocence Shattered 

_South Carolina …January 1777…_

Betsy Burwell sat quietly in her parent's bedroom upon the bed that Katy and Harry once shared. And even with her brother Steven there and a property full of servants and slaves, the girl felt awfully alone. She gazed at the miniature portrait of her mother then closed her eyes, remembering.

She recalled her 14th birthday last July, and how happy she was that day. Her mother was due to give birth in days and her father was still there on his military assignment to the area. Betsy was glad to have had him there most of the summer.

The girl looked down at the pillows, then rubbed her hand across the quilt on the bed. Tears filled her eyes as she recollected seeing her mother in the bed just months ago. She brushed them away with her hand, cursing herself, wondering just how long she would hurt over her mother's death, and how many more times she would cry about it.

Katy had gone into labor a couple of days after her daughter's birthday, and the labor was difficult. The baby was breech and the midwife, and then a doctor, could not get the baby turned for delivery, and Mrs. Burwell grew weaker and lost more blood as they struggled.

She must have known she was dying for she called Steven and Betsy to her side, where she took their hands. "Please, both of you, try to be brave and mature for your father. He has his hands full with this war and commanding his men and doesn't need to be worrying about you." Betsy blinked tears back again at the thought. Even in her last words, her selfless mama was thinking about her husband and children.

The girl held the portrait of her mother against her chest, trying not to bawl again as the memories came flooding back. She could see her papa holding her mother in his arms as she died, telling her that he loved her. And a moment after Katy Burwell passed from the world, the doctor slit her belly open, attempting to deliver the child. Betsy remembered more blood from her mother and how it covered the baby, which was a girl. But the infant was dead already, having been stuck too long in a bad position within the mother. The umbilical cord had also wrapped around her neck.

Mrs. Burwell was buried in the family's cemetery to the side of the house. She was placed by her two sons that had died in childhood, and the baby girl was with her in the coffin, laid on her chest.

Afterwards, Harry sat down with Betsy and told her that she was now expected to be the mistress of the plantation, being a gracious and demure hostess when they entertained. And she was to help her brother oversee the day to day operations of the farm, although since he was a young man now and in charge, he would always have the final say.

And after a couple of days more of mourning his wife and tying up loose ends at the plantation, Harry left. He was needed in the time of war, and his men needed their commander. Taking any more time with his two children or grieving for Katy was a luxury that he could not afford. He bid farewell to his grieving children, whom he knew were strong and would get through it, and hurried back to his command.

Seventeen year old Steven proved to be a good, young plantation master, managing things much the same way as Harry did. That did not leave much for Betsy to do or worry about, of which she was glad. Now if the war would end, which the rebels did indeed seem to be losing, then their father could return home to them and they could resume being a family.

Betsy looked over at her mother's jewelry box on the bureau. She rose from the bed and padded across the room to the dresser. There, she opened the chest and found Katy's favorite necklace, made of shells and pearls from the Caribean. Harry had purchased it for her.

The young girl held the necklace in her hands and ran her fingertips over the delicate gems, the soft, satiny pearls, and the nubby edges of the small, smooth shells. Betsy recalled how this very piece of jewelry had put her father in trouble with the British years before. And how the pretty little bangle had landed Harry Burwell in jail for a few days.

Young Miss Burwell smiled looking at the string of pearls and shells, recalling how much her mother loved it and how beautiful she looked when she wore the thing. And now it and the rest of the pieces in the box were Betsy's, and she would love them as much as Katy did, just because they were her mother's.

Betsy lifted the necklace and put it to her neck, holding it there, staring at how the beads looked against her skin. She tilted her head and studied it from another angle, pleased at how it felt against her neck. As she let it dangle loosely a little, shouts and commotion from downstairs got her attention.

"Are you insane, Steven?" she heard Mr. Waldron, the farm manager, yelling. "Your father forbids it! And what of your sister?"

Betsy lifted her skirt and ran down the stairs and out the front door onto the lawn. There before her was Steven, tying his bedroll and packs onto his horse and stuffing more things into the saddlebags. Then a distant neigh of another horse got her attention. And near the end of the lane to the road, she saw Ethan Drandly from town on his horse apparently waiting on Steven.

His sister's jaw dropped open and her eyes widened as she remembered her brother mentioning that his friend Ethan from the village had signed up. Then she felt sick and panicked, realizing that her brother was leaving.

Betsy reached out, putting her hand on Steven's arm as he secured his pack. "No, Steven, you're not enlisting, are you?"

"Yes," he answered resolutely. "I have sat idly by for too long while other men, including papa, are out there fighting and dying for this family and others. It's time for me to go."

Most of the servants including, and even some of the slaves were circled around watching their young plantation master, whom they thought had done an excellent job in his father's stead, loading up to leave. The main servants, Mrs. Leyanova, who ran the household, Mr. Hantz the farm hand, and Mr. Waldron, the overseer, had spoken up to the young man, trying to get him to stay, reminding him of how his father needed him here. It fell on deaf ears.

"No! You can't!" his sister cried.

"I have to," Steven defended. "They are short handed as it—"

"But this farm! You promised father that you would stay!" Betsy was getting desperate. He was _really_ going to leave.

Steven Burwell whirled around to face his sister. And although he wasn't upset with her, he glared her direction , objecting at the last remark as it was not the way he saw this "agreement" between he and the Colonel.

"No! I never _promised _father I'd stay," he argued in a stinging voice. "HE forbade ME from going."

Betsy cowered back a bit, the harsh tone of her brother's voice alarming her. She took a step backward, not wanting to upset him any further, knowing that would only serve to push him away quicker.

"Whether father disinherits me or not doesn't matter," Steven proclaimed, "I can't stay here in good conscience any longer while others do my bidding."

Mr. Waldron stepped, talking in a calm voice. "Steven, not everyone was meant to fight. There are some whose duties and responsibilities may keep them out of the fighting. It doesn't mean that just because you are here, that you can't still help the cause in other ways."

Miss Burwell shot him a look of relief, and thankfulness that the trusted farm manager had spoken up. She knew that of anyone, her brother would at least we listen to the servant whom he held in highest regard and trusted most of all.

Steven's face softened and he looked as if he seemed to calm down a bit at the overseer's words. Young Burwell took a breath, then let it out. "Look, Mr. Waldron, I understand that. And this farm is doing a great bit of good in this war by providing some food and livestock to our troops, thanks to father. And since the farm can provide all that, what more can I do? I can give my body and strength to this fight."

Mr. Waldron sighed himself, feeling inside that the young plantation master had already made his decision, and there was nothing more he, or anyone, could do to stop him. He decided to stay silent.

"I know father will be angry with me at first," conceded the boy, "but I think in the end, he will agree that I did the right thing."

"But _you_ manage all of this," Betsy pointed out. "It is because of you that we provide for the cause and that the farm survives from day to day."

"The farm practically runs itself under the guidance of Mr. Waldron and Mr. Hantz," Steven asserted.

Betsy found herself choking back tears as she argued with her brother. Steven's strong resolve to leave was breaking her down to the point of blurting out anything if it would stop him. "But you are to protect—"

"I'll do better at protecting this family and farm if I am out there defending it, ensuring the future." Steven reached downward under his mount and tugged on the strap, checking that the saddle was secured. As he turned back to his sister, she threw her arms around him, as if her embrace could hold him to the place.

"If you care about me and our home, you'll stay," she murmured.

The young man pushed her back from him gently and took hold of her shoulders. "Can't you see? It is because I love and care about our family and the farm that I must leave. So that we don't have to live under the tyranny of an absentee King; so the we don't lose the fortune that Grandpa and father worked so hard for in taxes; so that we don't have to worry about being suspected and searched; and so that we don't have to worry about father being jailed for some innocent little gift he purchased."

Steven pulled her to him again, hugging her for a moment. Betsy held on loosely to him, feeling defeated. He kissed her forehead then slipped gently from her embrace. The boy then turned to Mr. Waldron and the servants, telling them farewell and shaking their hands.

Then the young man looked past the small crowd and gazed at the house for a moment, hating to leave the home he loved but knowing he had to. He turned to face his sister, who had tears in her eyes, and he mouthed the word "Good bye" then he swung himself up onto his horse.

Betsy was helpless, unable to do nothing to stop him. The shock of situation left her frozen to her spot, unable to spot and her saucer eyes full of tears.

From his horse Steven announced, "My sister, as the only Burwell left here now, is your new plantation mistress. I know you will all be fine. I'll see you when I return."

"Godspeed," Mr. Waldron said with a wave of his hand.

With that, Steven turned his horse to face his friend awaiting him and cried "Ya!" He left the crowd of servants and his sister behind. They watched as his steed raced at a fast gallop to the end of the lane, where he joined Ethan Drandly, and the two rounded the corner and disappeared from view.

What am I to do, Betsy wondered. The girl had had absolutely no warning or no clue that her brother would even do this. She had thought that he would never defy their father, a stern and serious man, unhurried to show any emotion, and not to be trifled with.

Miss Burwell said nothing. Instead she turned around, feeling numb inside, and walked through a space in the circle of gathered people toward the side of the house, not knowing where to go.

The girl stopped only when she felt a hand touch her shoulder. She turned about to see Mr. Waldron standing there with an apologetic look on his face.

"We'll speak later, Miss Betsy," he simply said. They would have to discuss the situation and the affairs of the farm soon.

She nodded her head mutely, tears streaming silently down her cheeks. The girl turned back again and continued her numb walk.

The circle of servants, most who had known the girl since she was an infant in arms, watched her walking away, knowing she was stunned by what her brother had done and the suddenness of it. They felt badly for her having just had the responsibility of the plantation thrust upon her girlish shoulders at such a young age.

Betsy kept walking, still feeling empty inside. As she rounded the side yard of the house, the family cemetery came into view. The young lady lifted her skirts and ran toward it, stopping only at her mother's grave.

She sank down to her knees, folded her arms and rested them on the winter cooled granite of her mother's headstone. Betsy buried her face in her arms, weeping pitifully.

"Mama," she sobbed, "Steven is gone! What do I do without him and papa? What am I to do?"

/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/

_6 months later….._

_South Carolina…..July 1777….._

Betsy Burwell sat in the open breezeway between the main house and the farm office, a room essentially attached to the house via the covered walkway where she now rested. The Carolina heat was cooling as the sun began to set. The girl had been depressed most of the day because when she tended to the books this morning, she noticed on the calendar that she was now one month away from her 15th birthday.

The young woman, who had been forced to grow up fast in these last six months, was dreading her birthday. She knew it would remind her of how wonderful her 14th birthday was last summer, with her family around her. Her father and brother were both there and her mother was going to give her a new sibling in days. It was a happy time.

Betsy would have no one to celebrate her birthday this year. Her Father was away commanding, her brother had joined the local militia, and her mother and baby sister had died in childbirth.

In fact, she wouldn't celebrate it at all. It will be just another day, she thought, filled with the business of running this plantation. Some days it seemed like there was so much work and so much to manage that she couldn't fathom how her father did it—even with loyal help, servants and slaves.

What Betsy didn't know of the business, she was taught. She had learned about the planting and the harvesting. The girl was educated about the livestock. She had also been taught the accounts and bookkeeping of the farm. Mr. Waldron and Mr. Hantz dealt with customers, most of them male, knowing that a 14 year old girl in charge of a farm would not be taken seriously, and most would have refused to deal with her anyway since she was a woman.

Today, Betsy had helped with the fruit, spending her morning picking strawberries and the afternoon pulling cherries from the tree. The shade of the trees in the orchard made it the cooler place to be of the two tasks. The girl didn't have to help with the manual labor, but did most days as she was bored with no family there to talk to and be with.

She had eaten a light dinner this evening and now relished just being alone in the quiet on the breezeway, watching the sunset. Betsy looked down at her hands, marveling at how she had managed to clean away the red stains from the strawberries and cherries with some intense scrubbing.

The young lady pulled Steven's latest letter from her skirt pocket and read it again. In the six months he had been gone, she had received a mere handful of letters from him, not imparting much, usually asking for her to send supplies which the militia didn't receive regularly from the colonial congress. She would occasionally hear something about where the militia was when she visited the local village, Devington, from the Drandly family or others that she might run into there. The local shopkeeper, Mr. Atterson, was involved in a clandestine ring of messengers who could be counted on to quickly relay news and messages between different villages, the militia, and the colonial regulars, so she could always depend on him knowing something about her father or brother.

She tried to concentrate on Steven's last letter but was unable to. It only served to remind her that tomorrow morning she needed to box up a few supplies, run them into town, and leave them with Mr. Atterson to send through his network of couriers.

Betsy rubbed her tired eyes and sighed as she pulled another letter from her pocket. She opened the letter from her father, an old one from months ago, then layed it face down in her lap as she closed her eyes, hesitating before reading it.

She recalled back to the very day that her brother had left. The girl remembered writing a frantic letter to her father, telling her of the situation, and begging him to come home to her. She had written yet another one pleading to join him in his camp, swearing to help with nursing the wounded, laundry, sewing, cooking, anything just to be there. Her third letter appealed to him to have her removed from the plantation and taken to a safehouse. His response was a stern letter scolding her for being childish and telling her that he could not very well leave his command to come home to her nor could he spare any of his men to escort her to his camp or a safehouse.

"_We are often thrust into situations during a time of war that are unusual and require our utmost strength. Your mother made countless sacrifices, enduring long absences while I was away on duty. I sacrifice being home and seeing my family every day for the good of this cause. And now you must sacrifice, too. You are being called upon to steward the Burwell household and land. So you must sacrifice a bit of youth to grow up and take on the responsibility, and I expect nothing less of you. You are a Burwell and have that same courage that runs in the blood of our family," the colonel had written. _

The girl couldn't decide if she wanted to read this letter, the same one she had read dozens of times since receiving it in February, or not. She knew what it contained; knew it now by heart. Yet it pulled such heaving and contradictory emotions out of her. At first reading it, and still sometimes, it would make her cry, and she would wonder if he didn't love the command more than his own daughter. Other times it would fill her with a short lived strength, enough to help her to carry on through another day.

Betsy decided not to read it, folding it and shoving it back into her pocket. Instead, she went up to her room on the second floor of the white, three story plantation house. Once up there, she shed her dress, letting it fall to the floor of her room. The girl splashed a bit of cold water on her torso and face, cooling her skin a bit, the airy room soon drying her. She slipped her nightdress on, the light, delicate material of it sliding gently down her soft skin then let her hair down from having been up all day.

The young woman pulled a thin nightcoat on and called for a glass of cold cider. She went out onto the second story balcony, which provided the shade for the grand covered first floor veranda below it. Betsy sank down into a chair, savoring the darkness and the night air. Nellie, one of the housemaids had soon appeared with her drink.

Miss Burwell dismissed the girl with the message that the rest of the staff were dismissed as well for the evening. Glad to be left alone in the quiet, hearing only the crickets chirping in the nearby fields and woods, she sipped the cool drink. The girl ran her fingers through her long, sandy brown hair, realizing she'd forgotten to brush through it after letting it down moments ago, but not caring much. She was too fatigued from the chores of the day to care. The tired waves of her brunette tresses fell about her shoulders in disarray.

After a couple of slow sips of her apple cider, she let out a breath and sank down a little more in the chair. Then she closed her eyes, glad to finally feel cool after a hot day.

A few moments of this bliss passed before she was startled by a young boy's voice shouting frantically. A small shed had been erected at the front edge of the property at the end of the lane, near the main road, much like a guard house to a palace. The male servants or indentureds each took a turn staying out there nightly, watching for signs of the enemy or word from town that they were nearby.

"Mr. Waldron! Miss Burwell! Mr. Hantz!"

It was Wendell, one of the stable boys, an orphan serving indentured servitude. "They're nearby! "They're in town!"

Betsy jumped from her chair and leaned over the balcony railing. "Up here, Wendell! What is it?"

The other servants ran to the front porch and the yard as well, having heard the boy's shouts. "What's the trouble?" some voices queried.

"They're in the village right now!"

Miss Burwell shuddered, having a suspicion just who it was, but asked anyway. "Who?" she asked, calling down from the balcony.

"Redcoats!"

"Oh no," Betsy sighed under her breath as she turned from the railing. She quickly made her way into the house and could hear the servants already rushing about. She moved down the stairs as quickly as she could and out the front door.

Mr. Waldron was already questioning the boy on the front porch when Betsy arrived, still tying her robe closed. "They stopped at the pub," the boy said, trying to catch his breath. "They were asking questions. Wally Bradford ran out to tell everyone."

The servants and Betsy immediately knew that some British soldiers were at Bradford's pub. Bradford the barman, part of the shopkeeper's Atterson's message network, always had standing instructions for his son, at age 9 a very swift runner already, to slip out of their pub and sneak to one of the homes on the edge of town. The pubkeeper's son was then to notify the homeowner there, also part of the network, and that person would send signals to the townspeople to beware. The home backed up to an area of the woods which had hidden game trail, known only to the locals, and as the homeowner spread the word through town, little Wally ran the deer trail, spreading the word to the farms in the countryside nearby. So far, there had only been a couple of times that this system had failed to work.

Betsy looked at Mr. Waldron with fear in her eyes, but he returned her gaze with a look of calm. He was disguising it, though. He knew as well as everyone there knew that they were a prime target for raids by the British. The redcoats might raid them because they were a wealthy plantation. Or they might have learned that the farm was in the hands of a young woman, making it easy to take over. But they may also be searched for another reason they feared more: the plantation's owner. They all had hoped that enemy intelligence had not learned the location of Colonel Burwell's home. Rumor had run rampant that the redcoats were seizing farms and burning homes of rebel officers.

"Alright! You all know what to do!" Mr. Waldron yelled to all the servants still in the room. They all had been assigned tasks to take care of such as hiding the silver, securing the weapons that were hidden in the house in case of defense, and various other things.

"I'll hide the books," Betsy called, already trotting toward the office to the side of the house.

The Burwell plantation had two sets of accounting books: one fake and one genuine. The genuine book kept account of all the true transactions, some legitimate to local accounts, and the others showed what was sold, or even sometimes given, to the colonial regulars. They would be imprisoned if found to be providing livestock and foodstuffs to the enemy, so they kept a book of fake transactions that looked legitimate. They had a very secure hiding place for the genuine book, a place they were sure that the British wouldn't find. They would also "hide" the fake book, sloppily, so that it might easily be found by someone to inspect, hopefully being satisfied that they had seen the farm's accounts, keeping them off the trail of anything suspect going on there.

Betsy quickly grabbed up the account book and the two satchels containing the bills to congress for reimbursement and the receipts of monies to be paid back in the future by them, and she stuffed them into a hidden compartment in the desk, which was covered by ornate wooden carvings looking like a façade finish on the piece. She then placed the "fake" account book into a wall safe that was behind a portrait of her Grandfather Burwell. The girl left the portrait slightly crooked, just enough to let someone know that the painting had been moved.

By the time Betsy made it back to the large parlor of the house, the servants were assembled, all trying to act calm and look innocent and ignorant. Mr. Waldron had instructed all of them to stay quiet, and let him and Miss Burwell do the talking. He warned them that they were probably going to have to lie if interrogated.

The girl walked to the window and stood next to Mr. Waldron, who was gazing out the window intently into the dark. After an intense moment of silence, they heard thundering hooves slice through the quiet Carolina night. She put a hand on his forearm and felt the older man shiver ever so slightly.

"It's cavalry," the overseer declared with a foreboding in his voice.

When they were a bit closer coming up the lane to the house, he could see the group better in the moonlight and the faint illumination of a few torches. It was just enough light to see the color of their uniforms. There was no mistaking the short red jackets, a rider's cut, with the dark breeches and the dark, fur topped helmets.

"I think it's dragoons," Waldron spoke in a quiet voice.

Betsy had heard about a couple of regiments of these types who had reputations for brutality and little tolerance for non fighting colonials, and none whatsoever for the fighting rebels. It was known that these mounted legions were here in the colonies, and had recruited local loyalists. But she had no idea that they were this far South already.

"My God," she whispered, trying not to tremble.


	4. Chapter 3: Rattled Nerves

Alright, all, here is the next chapter. I apologize for the long time between postings-real life takes precedence over the fun of writing. Between work, family-yeah-Wendy is 6 1/2 now- working out, (yeah- getting healthy again) and school starting again in a couple of weeks, not much time for anything else. I'll try to post as quickly as I can. Thanks for your anticipation and your patience!

As usual, I am posting this late at night (yeah-I'm going to be functioning in full for that meeting at work at 8:30 am tomorrow-more like a functional zombie!). So you may find some errors as I proofread this on the fly tonight. I'll fix it tomorrow sometime.

JScorpio

Chapter 3 Rattled Nerves

Colonel Tavington brought his legion to a halt in front of the Burwell plantation home with a slow wave of his right arm. He hesitated, staying on his horse for a moment, looking at the large, white, main house of this farm, noticing light in a couple of windows on the first floor. The illumination came from sets of windows on both sides of the front door, so he quickly assumed them to belong to the parlor of the home.

_Good, he thought. Probably heard us coming. They're up and waiting for us. Their anticipation and fear of the raid should keep them compliant, at least. _

Two large, imposing looking dragoons were off their horses immediately, trotting ahead of the others to attend to their part in the raid. They ran up the steps of the house to secure the inhabitants.

As quickly as the two advance guard privates left, Captain Hugh Bordon dismounted and retrieved a pencil and pad of paper from his pack. He flipped the tablet open and began to make a rough sketch of the house. As he drew, the other soldiers were off their steeds and gathering about their commander.

Although the men knew the drill, having been on dozens of home raids, they still listened intently to the orders of their leader for any minute changes or additions. "Search the barns and the outbuildings. Pay attention to the grounds and the lay and flow of the land."

Bordon finished his rough drawing of the house, labeling it "Burwell Plantation near Devington, South Carolina" in the top corner. He joined the men around Tavington, respectfully listening to his orders.

"Take special note of how many people reside here: slaves, servants, everyone," Tavington continued. "Meet back here when you're finished. Give any notes and sketches to Captain Bordon for his intelligence report."

With that, the men scattered in all directions, save for three, who accompanied the Colonel and the captain into the house, removing their helmets as they did. Once inside the grand home, the officers looked about at the small group of people gathered into the parlor, under guard of their men. The bunch looked quiet and apprehensive, the fact of which did not escape Tavington. The apprehension, and his two guards, would "encourage" the inhabitants to cooperate.

Betsy swallowed hard and shuddered at the sight of the cavalrymen now standing in her house. She hoped that her fright was not apparent, knowing it was important to look calm and collected.

The girl sat quietly as one of the leaders whispered some orders to the privates that had entered with them, slipping off his riding gloves as he did. She tried not to look alarmed when the men left the room, assuming that they were going to search the house. The young woman heard their boots on the wooden stairs as they went to the upper floors. She closed her eyes for an instant, hoping that they wouldn't find anything that they thought to be suspicious.

"Good evening," the tall commander spoke in an eloquent voice. "Colonel William Tavington, Green Dragoons. This is my second in command, Captain Bordon, and my third officer, Lieutenant Wentworth." Each of the men nodded slightly as they were introduced.

Betsy was a bit surprised at how restrained and gentlemanly these redcoats were. She remembered a couple of raids before in the recent past, and how rough the infantry soldiers had acted, messing their house up and pushing her mother about, as well as roughing up her father and some of the male servants. The girl was perplexed at the manners the raiders showed, which made her sigh with relief. But that feeling vanished as quickly as it came when she saw an indiscreet look of dread pass between Misters Hantz and Waldron.

"This is the Burwell farm, is it not?" asked Captain Bordon.

"It is," Mr. Waldron confirmed in a flat voice.

"And you are a member of the Burwell family?" Tavington queried.

"No sir. I'm Jake Waldron, the overseer."

Colonel Tavington shifted his weight from one leg to the other, looking about the room at the portraits on the wall. An uncomfortable silence passed as he then looked at the faces of the people assembled.

"And who in this room _is_ a Burwell?" the commander asked, his voice conveying an inkling of impatience now.

Betsy sighed imperceptibly, trying to maintain composure and find a bit of courage. "I am."

Her voice was low as she replied.

"Your name please," Captain Bordon requested. His deep voice was strangely soothing. The officer's gaze at Betsy was disarming. She tried not to squirm as a breath caught in her throat.

"Betsy Burwell," she answered. "I'm Harry's daughter."

The colonel looked over at the portrait of Harry Burwell, in uniform, on the wall. He studied it for a moment, trying to commit the face to memory. Then he turned his eyes to the colonel's daughter.

"And where is Colonel Burwell, hmm?" Tavington asked, sounding a bit sinister now. "With his troops, I suppose?"

"No," Miss Burwell answered.

"Why is that?", asked the commander. "I last heard him to be serving."

"He was relieved of duty," Betsy lied, not wanting the British to know that he was still active in the military, but also not wanting them to know that she was there alone. "He came home to be with us."

"And why was he dismissed?" Tavington interrogated, sounding insistent.

"My mother died in childbirth recently." Betsy looked down at the floor, the pain of her mother's death still pulling on her heart.

"Oh, you have my condolences," the colonel said, less than sincere. He leaned over and whispered to Lieutenant Wentworth, ordering the junior officer to check the cemetery. Betsy and the servants in the parlor watched with concern as the young lieutenant quickly left the house.

"And where is your father now," Tavington asked.

"My aunt, his sister," Betsy began slowly, ensuring not to stammer, making it sound believable, "lost her husband recently. He went to Redding to help her settle his estate." The girl was trying not to panic, sure that she would forget part of the script of this story hastily concocted by her and Mr. Waldron.

"Oh, I see," the colonel said with a haughty tip upward of his chin. "Who is in charge in his stead?"

Mr. Waldron and Mr. Hantz exchanged quick, discreet looks, knowing what the other was thinking. Both were trying to figure out if the two officers, both as stone faced as the other, were buying the horse manure they were throwing. They hoped that the youth and immaturity, coupled with exhaustion, of their young plantation mistress would not drive her to crack her seemingly calm façade.

"Steven, my brother," she replied with no hesitation.

"May I speak with him?"

"No," the girl answered with no hesitation, in fact almost too fast. "If he were here. But he's hunting this evening. He is due back tomorrow sometime."

"Could we see the farm's office?" Bordon asked.

"Of course," Betsy said, rising demurely from her seat. "It's right this way."

Afraid for her to be alone with the two officers, Mr. Hantz looked for an excuse to be part of the trio headed that direction. He moved toward the archway that led into the hall, which immediately made the two guards point their muskets toward him. The farmhand leaned forward, catching the candlestick holder before it could be put into her hand.

"Miss Betsy, why don't you let me carry that," he offered quickly, with the two officers and the men holding weapons looking suspiciously at him. "The saucer on this candlestick has cracked and is leaking. I don't want you to get burnt by the hot wax."

"Oh, thank you," she said, acting relieved. With that, the soldiers with the guns eased a little, dropping them from an aggressive to just an attentive stance.

Mr. Hantz led the quartet of people down the hall, then out through the short breezeway, passing the comfy chair Miss Burwell lounged in just two hours earlier. Entering the office, the farmhand quickly lit two lamps in the space, then made his way out of the room, making sure to stand just outside the open door in case something should happen.

Betsy decided not to offer the "fake" book to Tavington and Bordon, opting to stay quiet until they questioned her. To her surprise, the officers did not ask for the ledger. In fact they said nothing as they took a quick look around the room, then exited. She gave Mr. Hantz, who was still at the door, a puzzled look which he quickly dismissed with a look of his own that quietly scolded her, warning her not to reveal her confusion. The servant scooted politely past the colonel and his adjutant to light their way back to the main room. Miss Burwell brought up the rear of the group.

When the two dragoon commanders and Betsy and Mr. Hantz returned to the parlor, they found the others still sitting quietly under guard of the soldiers bearing the muskets. The young lieutenant had returned, standing at the door as silently as the bunch sitting in the room. Tavington walked straight to him, and listened as Lieutenant Wentworth whispered that he had seen a grave for Colonel Burwell's wife.

The dragoon leader turned around to glance at Miss Burwell and her servants. "Well, everything is in order. Lieutenant. Captain," he commented tersely as he spun on his heel to leave. Wentworth and Tavington made a rapid exit, leaving the second in command, Bordon, behind with the two guards, who finally lowered their weapons.

The adjutant hesitated a moment at the door, making the group assembled wonder if something else was going to be demanded of them. Instead, he lifted his eyebrows and looked diplomatically at them.

"Uh….thank you for your cooperation," he said, his words measured precisely to reflect a mixture of cordiality and forced decorum. "Good evening." The man bowed his head to the group slightly, then disappeared through the door.

Mr. Hantz and Mr. Waldron both standing, inched slowly toward the windows, keeping a cautious eye on the group of Redcoats mounting their steeds out of the green. Betsy and the rest of the group sat tensely and silently, not moving a muscle, hoping the cavalrymen would leave soon. The farmhand and overseer watched intently and sighed openly as the Green Dragoons turned the opposite direction and rode away.

"Auf Weiderseihen, rotrock!" Mr. Hantz spat in German, his contempt identifiable in any language.

"Yeah, good riddance, lobsters!" Waldron joined in the cursing.

With that, Mrs. Leyanova and the rest of the servants dispersed leaving Betsy with the two male servants. She stood slowly, watching the two of them.

"Hantz, go check with the slaves out back," Waldron requested. "Find out what the British wanted from them."

Betsy blew out the candles in the parlor and followed the overseer into the hall. "Mr. Waldron," she called, "do you think they believed us?"

"No," he replied as he kept walking. When he didn't hear the young lady's soft footsteps on the wooden floor, he turned back to look at her. The girl was standing in the hall with a wide eyed look of alarm on her face.

He knew he had to assuage the mistress' fear. "Rebels lie to them every day. They're used to it. They expect it. Redcoats know that rebels are not going to offer up the truth willingly."

Betsy shook her head, having faith in Waldron's experience and wisdom. She was still troubled, though. "Don't you think it was out of sorts for them not to demand to see the ledger book?"

"Maybe a bit odd," the man answered. "Perhaps we didn't have what they were looking for? Maybe they are tracking a fugitive."

Waldron turned back and resumed walking, soon exiting the house. Betsy ascended the stairs to the second floor, trying to keep her faith in the servant's explanations. She sighed and dismissed the episode, as unsettling as it was. Yet, she knew she wouldn't be able to sleep tonight after all the trouble.

/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/

Colonel Tavington and his men rode in silence until the Burwell plantation was well out of sight.

The dragoon leader turned to his aide de camp and broke the quiet. "How did their answers square with your intelligence?"

"They were lying," Bordon answered flatly, his eyes still on the road ahead.

"Yes. I know they were," the colonel agreed.

Nothing else needed to be said as the Green Dragoons rode back to Fort Carolina to bed down for whatever night was left, hoping to get some much needed sleep.

/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/

Late the next morning, Tavington and Bordon were in General O'Hara's office for a meeting. Banastre Tarleton, just in from up north, was there on a recruiting mission. This secretly irritated Captain Bordon, who was _also_ trying desperately to recruit men from this area for _their_ legion. After all, they were just as short on good horsemen and horses as Tarleton's legion was. _Why can't he recruit locals from up there, Bordon asked himself._

The captain was in a bad mood this morning from lack of sleep. They didn't get back to the fort until after 2am to begin with. After Hugh's head hit the pillow, he was awakened twice. Once by Banastre and the whore in that commander's room in the fort, having some raucous bedsport, obviously not caring who heard. And the second time not but an hour later, he was called to help break up a fight between some drunken infantrymen which had gotten out of hand. Even though it was not his unit of men, his size and sheer strength packed into his tall, brawny frame made him one of the usual officers called upon to help subdue brawlers.

Now Captain Bordon fought to keep his mind on the meeting. It was wandering badly, thinking about all he had to accomplish today and how little time he had before Tavington would surely assign him another task. He wasn't sure why he was asked to attend the meeting. All they had talked of so far were activities that Tavington could brief the general on. Hugh had written his report on the raids yesterday over breakfast this morning and already turned them into his superior.

The captain fought to rein his mind back in_. Why do I need to be here? They have all the info they need about yesterday's activities in my reports. God, I've got so much to do today. I have to meet with two candidates for possible recruitment. I have an amended intelligence report to write. I have to reconcile the legion's receipts for reimbursement….. _

The laughter of the other three officers finally pulled his mind back into the meeting. "You should have gone with Tavington and his men last night. It would have kept you out of trouble," O'Hara scolded Tarleton.

"No," Tavington spoke up, disagreeing with the general's assessment. "He would have found some kind of trouble while out with us. We needed calm discretion last night."

"Well, colonel," O'Hara now spoke to William, "you're stuck with him now. He can better recruit while encamped with you than here at the fort."

"If you'll permit me to point out, sir," Bordon joined in, "that what you're _not_ saying is that the fort will be much quieter with Colonel Tarleton gone, and that you will enjoy the peace."

"Of course, Captain," the general admitted. "After two nights of Colonel Tarleton and some slattern keeping the whole household awake with their cavorting, everyone will be grateful for a night of quiet."

The ginger haired Tarleton smiled impishly at his fellow officers, proud inside that everyone in the house had heard his masculine prowess with his lady friend, satisfying her loudly. "It was more of a romp," Banastre began, "and I assure you that she was no trollop. She is quite cultured and experienced and we gave each other a run for our money!"

"And who is this well-to-do harlot you speak of?" William asked his fellow cavalry commander.

"Well, funny you should ask," Ban joked, "Seems her husband, an officer here, is currently away. It is Mrs.—"

Charles O'Hara gave a frantic wave, interrupting the underling officer with it, silencing him. The general recognized immediately the need for discretion, and not wanting to be implicated in anything, was more than happy to remain ignorant. "No! Don't tell us! It is better if we do not know."

The officers laughed together at their general as for once he didn't want to know what was going on when he usually demanded every single bit of intelligence and gossip they possessed. Ban kept on with his kidding.

"But sir," he objected, "I feel I MUST tell you so that you can keep her husband away for awhile! I simply must have more time with her."

"Well, you'll have to carry on with her elsewhere as you are hereby relieved of your room here at the main house," the general exclaimed. "You can keep Tavington's camp awake."

After more laughter from the group, General O'Hara got an alarmed look on his face which got the attention of the other officers. He suddenly realized that he was turning Banastre Tarleton loose on the Carolina countryside, and wasn't so sure now that this was a good idea.

"Colonel," he began, addressing Tarleton, "Please try to keep your gambling and drinking to a minimum. And restrain that lusty appetite of yours somewhat. Try not to leave any redhaired by blows around the countryside."

"That will be quite a feat!" Tavington quipped.

"When I told the paymaster that you were coming down for a few days," the general informed, "he went into a panic, informing me that he doesn't have enough money in the budget to cover any debts you leave behind that are called in, or to pay off the women who claim to be carrying your bastards!"

"I'll try my hardest to be a good boy," Ban said solemnly, which made himself, Bordon, and Tavington burst into laughter, knowing that Banastre Tarleton could not seem to stay out of trouble.

"See that you do," O'Hara warned, not as amused as the others. The general could foresee rumors of Tarleton's antic making their way back to the fort.

The general turned serious, wanting to get back to business. He looked at William. "Now colonel, I understand you wanted to talk about your last raid of the evening?"

"Yes, at the Burwell plantation," he confirmed.

"And what did you find?"

"Our visit verified the intelligence we have," Bordon spoke up, "that the colonel is still actively on duty and away, and the son is gone as well, having joined the militia."

"Of course, they lied about that," Tavington remarked.

"That's to be expected," O'Hara said, a bit irritated at the thought. "You have to... coerce... these colonials to get anything of worth out of them."

"We did learn something, though, that we didn't know," the captain announced.

"And that is?" O'Hara queried, folding his hands on his desk, waiting intently for the answer.

"Colonel Burwell's wife passed on last summer, during childbirth," Bordon replied.

"Oh?"

Captain Bordon went on. "That has left only one Burwell there on the farm. A daughter. She looks about fourteen, I'll wager."

"A young girl?" O'Hara asked, sitting forward, puzzled. "That rebel commander has left his whole plantation in the hands of a girl?"

"Yes."

"Are you quite sure?" the general asked again, still in disbelief that a large plantation and business would be trusted to a young girl to take care of during a time of war. "There is no other family there with her?"

"Yes," Tavington spoke, an ominous tone in his voice. A sly smile crossed his face as his eyes glimmered.

"I assure you general, that she is _quite _alone."

**Author's notes:**

Rotrock: German, loosely translating to "Redcoat".

By Blow: English slang at that time, for bastard. Usually left behind from some quick encounter.


	5. Chapter 4: Second Thoughts

Chapter 4: Second Thoughts

_July 1777…..Williamsburg, Virginia_

Colonel Burwell sat at the table in his tent with his aide de camp, Major Zeller, and his old friend recently turned militia man, Benjamin Martin. Ben, who only a year ago was determined not to join the war, changed his mind a few months after an unfortunate incident left the man feeling as if he really had no choice but to enlist.

Benjamin had seen firsthand what the British could do—with or without being provoked. They had raided his farm a few months back and found an injured Gabriel resting there with messages in a marked case. They seized Gabriel, killed another son named Thomas, then burnt his house and buildings, taking the livestock as well. Ben's immediate anger and grief caused a dormant cruelty within him that he had laid to rest years ago at the end of the other war, to rear its ugly head. He went after a small detachment of redcoats and killed them all save for one. The widowed farmer was in it deep now and could not get out. Martin had no other choice but to send his children to their aunt and fight beside his son.

Burwell, a leader who often dropped whatever he was doing to be briefed on the area's intelligence, had done this as well this morning, knowing the importance of up to date information. But at the moment, the meeting seemed to drone on. The voices of the colonel's two companions rattled in his ears. It might as well have been church bells peeling in the distance. Harry knew that as a good commander, he needed to be listening, but some news brought in by a messenger this morning so disturbed him that he couldn't concentrate on the matter at hand.

Ben dutifully shared all the intelligence information he'd picked up recently as Zeller recorded it all. As Martin spoke, Burwell had been quiet, which wasn't unusual as the man of few words often let others speak as he took it all in and digested it. Both the militia leader and the young adjutant could tell that the duty driven colonel wasn't listening this morning and was unfocused, seemingly a million miles away.

When Benjamin finished talking and the major writing, both sat in silence for nearly two minutes, looking at Colonel Burwell and wondering what the problem was. Indeed, Harry was so lost in his own thoughts that he hadn't even realized that his two compatriots had finished speaking and were sitting quietly, staring at him now.

Ben cleared his throat, then stretched his arm out beside him, placing is hand lightly on the colonial commander's shoulder.

"Harry," he began, "the major has all the details now."

Burwell snapped back to reality and suddenly realized that he'd missed all of the intelligence Martin had shared. He felt badly.

"I'm sorry, gentlemen," he apologized. "I promise to look over all the notes later…." His voice trailed off as his whirling mind threatened to take him captive again.

"What's on your mind, Harry?" Martin probed.

"It's a personal matter," he revealed. He shook his head, trying to dismiss the thoughts and get back to business. "I need to push it out of my mind as the war takes precedence over _all _now."

"I understand," Martin replied, "but if you let the trouble brew, it may cloud your judgment on military matters at a time when a clear head is needed."

"I know you're right, Benjamin."

"What's the worry?" Martin shifted, easing back in his seat and stretching his legs under the table.

"A message came from home this morning, through Atterson's network," Harry proclaimed. "Three nights ago, the Green Dragoons were in the area."

A grim look crossed Ben Martin's face when he heard this. This was the same unit that had brought havoc to his homestead. A twinge of pain hurt his heart as he instantly recalled the murder of his beloved son.

"Tavington's legion?"

"Yes," confirmed Burwell, "And you know personally of their exploits and how they conduct duty."

Ben nodded in agreement. "And that can only mean trouble."

Harry paused, then continued. "They raided my farm. Didn't seize anything. Left quickly."

"Perhaps it was routine or maybe they were looking for a fugitive," Major Zeller, the quiet but ultra intelligent adjutant finally spoke.

The two older men nodded at the young officer's observation. A heavy silence fell over the tent as the three rebels thought about the crown's two cavalry regiments and how they were quickly making a very negative, albeit frightening impression on the colonials. The Colonial regulars were beginning to realize that the dragoons were His Majesty's secret weapon to bend and break the rebels into submission.

"How did Betsy do?" Colonel Martin asked, breaking the contemplative quiet that had enveloped the trio.

"By all accounts, she stayed calm and handled the situation well." Harry shifted in his chair, and now seemed to ease a bit, as if this exorcising of thoughts was doing him some good.

Another uneven silence fell over the three men. And although Martin and Zeller could see some relief in their commander at speaking of his woes, they still saw worry etched in his face. The two surmised that there was something else still bothering him.

"What else is troubling you?" Ben asked in a subdued voice.

The colonel let out a heavy sigh, and looked pained, as if he didn't want to say next what he had to say. He looked down at the wood of the table and spoke slowly.

"I think I made a mistake in leaving Betsy in charge after Steven left," he admitted, closing his eyes, feeling almost embarrassed to have to have revealed that. After all, his men thought he was strong; a pillar; a rock. Now he had to admit and reveal fault of his own part on his very own home front.

The troubled commander went on. "She is still so young and still so emotional over losing her mother. Katy gave her strength and courage."

"Of course the death of her mother would shake her confidence," Zeller said softly. For a young man, he often spoke and did things in a maturity way beyond his years and other youths his age.

"You've been proud of her," Ben pointed out, "You said she has done so well with the servant's help."

"Yes she has. But I'm having second thoughts now." Harry rose from his seat, stretched his arms and back, then looked up at the canvas ceiling of his quarters. Then he turned back to look at Zeller and Martin.

"With the war actions starting to move southward now," he announced, "skirmishes and… and…." His voice trailed off again as he searched for the words,"unsavory people are getting closer to home," Harry finished his thought. "She's a pretty, young girl essentially there alone without any family members. And_ I_ am a rebel leader. And that makes _her_ a prime target for…trouble…..from the redcoats."

The colonel inhaled deeply, holding the breath for an instant, then let it out. He stepped to the table and leaned forward a bit, resting his clenched fists on the surface of it. "I think I should make arrangements to get her away from there; get her to safety."

"What are your plans?" Ben asked with concern, ready to help if need be.

Harry pulled back from the table again and turned his backs to them. He was quiet for an instant as he took a step away, his gaze now aimed out the door, as if he could see his farm like it was just beyond the open tent flap.

He answered Martin in a lost and far off voice. "I don't know yet, but I need to make a decision about it soon."


	6. Chapter 5: An Ordinary Day Disrupted

Chapter 5 An Ordinary Day Disrupted

Betsy Burwell stood by quietly as the semi circle of village girls around her best friend Hannah Lansing seemed to close in tightly. The group was admiring Miss Lansing's engagement ring. They were going on about how it was just weeks until Hannah's wedding. Another girl was showing off her engagement ring as well, and yet another had just become betrothed. All the talk turned into a hum as Betsy became lost in her own thoughts.

All the chatter of rings and betrothals and weddings made Betsy think of Major George Rogers Clark. She had last seen him over a year ago in Charles Towne. She closed her eyes as a twinge of pain engulfed her heart as only it could a young girl smitten by a handsome young officer.

The girl remembered the time they had spent together during the ball at the Middleton's home. She recalled the young man coming to call at her parent's home for dinner, and how her father seemed so fond of him. Betsy knew he had gone back to the Northwest Territory for duty.

She received no letters from him and it was pointless to write to him as well. The major had mentioned that there were no organized posts for mail on the frontier, so he seldom wrote to family or friends having no way to get the mail to them. He and his men were lucky to get official messages to and from the governors and generals unless their group or a messenger just happened upon one another in the wilderness.

Miss Burwell wondered where the officer was on the frontier and what he was doing. She heard of him upon occasion in the newspapers . His brave and daring exploits had made him well known to the public now, making him a hero.

Betsy snapped out of her thoughts as she felt a gentle tug on her arm. It was Hannah, moving her away a few feet from the throng of gaggling girls, seeing that Miss Burwell's mind was occupied elsewhere.

"Happy birthday, early," she told Betsy with a smile. "In case we don't get to visit next week."

"Thank you," Miss Burwell replied. An uneasy silence hung over them for an instant due to the newfound awkwardness that often perpetuates between a young bride to be and her vestal maiden friend with no prospective suitors at that moment.

Betsy took Hannah's hand and looked closely at the ring on her finger. She sighed, forcing a smile to her lips. "It's a beautiful ring." Her voice was low, not really disguising her own longing and envy.

"You'll find a man and be married soon," Hannah assured with a grin.

"A _man?_" asked Betsy, rolling her eyes. "They're all away, busy fighting right now."

"Including a certain tall, red haired officer?"

Betsy Burwell blushed, dipping her head to where her chin touched her neck, hiding her embarrassment. "Yes! _Especially_ Major Clark! His hands are completely full defending the frontier."

"And he's making quite a name for himself," exclaimed Hannah. "Father reads of him in the gazettes."

Betsy chuckled. "Yes! He has become a hero. He's _their_ hero—the people out there." Miss Burwell didn't even try to act as if she didn't know just how important the young officer from Virginia had become to the settlers on the frontier.

"And nonetheless a man of value and hero to the generals back here," Hannah pointed out.

Betsy nodded silently, blushing a bit. She wanted to be able to say that he was _her_ hero, as well, as if she somehow possessed him. But how could he be, she wondered. The young woman, infatuated with this fierce war God, had only spent a few hours with the copper haired major.

"Has he written you?"

"He's too busy fighting."

"Have you written _him_?" Hannah queried, recalling her friend speaking to her excitedly of meeting the officer in Charles Towne a year ago.

"There's no regular post out there to send it to and he's never at a settlement long enough to receive anything I'd send," she informed.

"Don't you want to court him?"

"Yes," Betsy answered, "but my father won't allow a courtship by letter, I'm sure. His practicality would only let us woo in person under his eyes or some other trusted chaperone."

Miss Burwell let out a forlorn breath. "Father knows that George Clark would not have time to write nor anywhere to receive my notes."

"Perhaps this mess will end soon," Hannah commented, "and all the men will come home. Then your Major can woo you properly."

Betsy corrected. "He's _not_ _my major—"_

"_Yet_," her friend added. "He will be. He would be a fool to resist you….. _and_ your family's standing."

"I will court him if father allows it," Betsy resolved. The girls embraced and bid farewell after their exchange.

As Miss Burwell left, she walked a few steps, but turned back to watch Miss Lansing strolling back over to join the throng of giggling girls. As the group laughed girlishly and carried on about courtships and betrothals, Betsy desperately wanted to be a part of them. Jealousy and envy tore at her heart. _She_ wanted to be in the midst of them, showing off an engagement ring, passing around a miniature portrait in a locket of some handsome officer, speaking of the wedding plans, giggling in hushed tones about the wedding night.

But how _could_ she get married, she wondered. Father made it her task to run the plantation. Just how and when would she have time for a proper courtship or wedding?

The girl soon forced herself to turn back around and walk. And it helped her to dismiss the silly, girlish thoughts as soon as she caught sight of her buckboard, parked outside the Atterson's General Store, being loaded with crates and bags. She hurried along, knowing that Mr. Waldron was probably finishing up inside the store purchasing the items they had come to town for.

As she neared the store, her pace slowed a bit when she saw nothing of her farm overseer, thinking him probably still occupied with Mr. Atterson. The young girl looked down at the bag in her hands, full of Jesuit's Bark she had purchased from the apothecary. Mrs. Leyanova requested the stuff to put with her medicinal herbs to help with Malarial fevers. Betsy opened the bag enough to get a whiff of the pungent stuff. Her nose crinkled with the bitter scent and she quickly drew the drawstring tight again, closing it up. She bristled slightly at the memory of its bitter taste, which one could still taste in wine or whatever strong drink it was mixed with.

It was only a moment later when Betsy found herself nearing the mercantile. The wagon stood in front of it, the mules still hitched to the post. The vehicle was loaded with bags and crates, but the plantation's overseer was still not in sight. The girl stepped up onto the porch and greeted Mrs. Atterson, who was sweeping.

"Have you seen Mr. Waldron?"

"He's out back with Henry," the older woman answered as she swept the refuse off the wood.

As Mrs. Atterson finished and placed the broom against the wall, both women heard distant thunder. The two ladies exchanged quizzical looks. After another moment of listening, they determined the noise to be horsemen—many—approaching. The two women quickly ducked into the store, not knowing if the band nearing the town was friend or foe. Better safe than sorry to stay out of sight until they knew for sure.

Miss Burwell and Mrs. Atterson craned their heads to look out the front window toward the noise. Suddenly, out of a cloud of the red Carolina dust, a group of uniformed cavalry riders appeared, bearing down quickly on the village. The shopkeeper's wife's mouth drew tightly into a scowl.

"Redcoats!," she swore in irritation. "They were just here a few days ago. What do they want now?"

Betsy recognized the red jackets trimmed with dark green from her memory, even after only seeing them once. But the fur helmets, tall and foreboding, made her shiver. Inside, she hoped this was not the same group of cavalry that had accosted them at home a few nights ago.

The young lady said nothing as she moved to the back door of the store. Looking outside, she saw Mr. Waldron and Mr. Atterson peering around the corner of the house at the riders, now arriving on the main street of the village. Waldron looked back at the door and saw Miss Burwell standing there, looking alarmed.

"They look familiar," she said, uncertainty lacing her voice, despite the suspicion inside her that made her worry.

"They're the ones that raided us the other night," answered the farm's manager. Waldron, suspicious of the riders, reached up and took hold of Betsy's wrist, firmly guiding her out of the store to join him in the yard.

"Stay back here with me and be quiet," he instructed in a hushed voice.

The young girl obeyed, not knowing what to think. Mr. Waldron had been so quick to dismiss their visit to the plantation just days ago. And now he seemed fearful.

Mr. Atterson, Waldron, and Betsy all stood hidden by the house in the backyard of the store. They stayed quiet, watching around the corner as the dragoons, still on their horses, gathered in a circle about their commander, obviously getting some kind of instructions from him.

Jake Waldron's worst fears were confirmed. This was Tavington's legion, the same group that raided the farm last week. He remembered the leader, the colonel, and how he carried himself. He also recalled the second in command, a seemingly educated man named Captain Bordon. The farm manager recollected both men having tall, strong builds, making them even more intimidating.

As the overseer continued to peer cautiously from his hiding place, he saw another officer near the two he had recognized. Waldron could tell that the diminutive soldier with red hair was a leader of sort, for he stayed near the dragoon commanders and wore the uniform of a cavalry officer. This officer had not been with the unit that raided their farm the other night, so Jake had no idea who he was. But that was no matter. He was just another officer in this feared group of soldiers, and Waldron assumed that he could cause just as much heartache and trouble as the rest of them could.

The farm manager and the others with him strained to listen but couldn't hear as the leader spoke to his men in a low voice. After a moment, they watched as half the men dismounted and began to walk away from the group while the other half stayed on their horses, some riding up the street, and some staying put, forming a cordon. Waldron could tell that this regiment had something important to attend to. The band of cavalry obviously meant business as it was clear that they were not going to let anyone out of town while they were here.

The trio behind the store soon heard boots and the jingling of spurs on wood. It was so close. They knew that one of them had just entered the store. They moved closer to hear what went on within, worried about Mrs. Atterson.

"I'm looking for Miss Betsy Burwell," a deep voice inquired of the store's mistress.

"I haven't seen her," Mrs. Atterson lied.

"That's the Burwell's wagon in front of your store, is it not," inquired the dragoon with the rich voice, "loaded with goods from your store here?"

"Why….yes," she stammered, "but I…I…don't know where they are. Perhaps they are visiting elsewhere in the village?"

Hearing the inquiry from outside, Mr. Waldron knew that trouble was brewing. He pulled Betsy close enough to him to whisper in her ear. "Go! Hide! Make your way to the woods if you can!"

The girl nodded and slinked away, around the edge of the smokehouse. The young lady looked toward the woods a few yards away, trying to pick out a spot to flee to. She looked back for an instant, seeing the two men still out back of the store, listening to what unfolded inside.

"I don't know where they are," Mrs. Atterson was heard to say, an alarm rising in her voice. "They dealt with my husband."

"And where is he?"

"I don't know," she fibbed. "He must have stepped away for a moment."

Miss Burwell knew she had to move cautiously, yet quickly, careful not to run and draw attention to herself. She moved nonchalantly as possible through a nearby flower garden, where she stood behind a lilac bush, peering through the foliage, trying to watch what transpired near the mercantile. The young lady heard a voice shout insistently.

"Keep looking for her," Colonel Tavington, the commander, shouted. "She's in this village somewhere!"

Miss Burwell looked to her left and saw the blacksmith's shop. She took in a deep breath to summon her courage, the darted quickly across the open path between the garden and the next property. The girl stood against the back of the blacksmith's shop, hearing the tradesman being questioned by a dragoon. To her right stood the barn, which Betsy eyed carefully, wondering if she should risk hiding within it. Then she remember that Mr. Waldron had urged her to flee the village and lose herself in the woods.

The young woman sighed in frustration as she looked around. It seemed that all she could see was buildings and gardens, and that from where she was in the town, the woods seemed a thousand miles away. Behind the barn was another small shed belonging to the blacksmith. Betsy told herself that if she could clear that, it would take her close to a field that was nearby.

She paused another moment, hearing the dragoons moving back and forth between buildings and paths and streets looking for the girl. When the footsteps and voices seemed far away again, she trotted across the opening between the buildings and soon found herself behind the blacksmith's shed. Miss Burwell heard noises in the shed. She was sure it was a woman crying.

Betsy inched to her side and looked in through the window. She glimpsed a sight that stunned her. On the dirt floor was the blacksmith's daughter, a girl she didn't know that well. A dragoon with red hair was on top of the girl, her skirt pushed up with his body between her open legs. The young woman was whimpering, her mouth covered by the gloved hand of the redcoat, as she struggled beneath him. Miss Burwell saw that his other hand held her thins wrists, pinned down to the dirt above her head where she lay.

Betsy immediately pulled back from the window, clamping her hand over her own mouth, desperately preventing a gasp. And although Miss Burwell knew very little of congress between a man and a woman, she knew enough to tell that this cavalryman had forced himself upon the blacksmith's daughter. Betsy wanted to help her, but knew she had to help herself escape, as well. So with tears welling in her eyes and a sick feeling in her stomach, she knew she'd have to leave the soldier to complete his dastardly deed lest _she_ be caught….and maybe even suffer this fate next!

Miss Burwell again heard the horses trotting and boots running on the ground, aware of house close they seemed. What could they possibly want with me, she asked herself. She recalled the horrid rumors she'd heard about the dragoons, even though they had acted with calm discretion at the farm nights ago. Betsy recollected how fearful Mr. Waldron was moments ago, knowing now that he'd acted on a hunch. The girl instantly decided that she didn't want stay around to find out what His Majesty's soldiers wanted with her.

With the redcoats canvassing the town aggressively for her, she knew she had to get away from the village as fast as possible. The girl looked ahead and saw a thin copse of trees. She ran across the small lawn and was soon within the trees, still hidden from view. And though Miss Burwell was inching away from the main avenue in the village, she could see the cavalrymen now moving between the buildings, as well as the street.

Betsy looked around, planning her next move. She saw the Dawson's field, and just beyond it the woods outside the town. The girl took a deep breath, trying to summon courage. She would have to cross the lane beside the copse of trees where she now hid then make her way through the large cornfield to get to the forest.

Miss Burwell watched for a moment as one of the riders brought his horse around a nearby building. She held her breath, watching the soldier until he and his steed disappeared again around another structure. Instantly the girl darted across the lane to a small hedge near the edge of the field.

She was getting ready to make her run through the corn crops when she heard more shouting. The words made her freeze in her spot. Betsy then craned her head up from over the hedgerow, frantically looking in the direction of the voices, needing to see what was happening.

"I've got the overseer!" a deep, booming voice yelled. It was Bordon, the dragoons second in command. He had his gun trained on Mr. Waldron, who was standing, trapped with his back against the wall of a woodshed.

"He's over here!"

With that, Colonel Tavington, mounted still on his steed, moved the beast in the direction of Bordon's voice with half a dozen of his men following him. They soon found the aide de camp and the Burwell's farm hand. The soldiers pulled their swords and pointed them toward the helpless man, who was eyeing the redcoats with hate and contempt.

"Where is she?" Tavington asked.

"Well away from here by now," Waldron answered snidely.

Tavington scowled down at the man, his eyes narrowed in silent warning. "Apprehend him."

Two of the soldiers jumped at the command, quickly binding the overseer all the while that Bordon kept his pistol pointed at the man.

They began to march Mr. Waldron out to the main road in front of the mercantile. Once there, the man saw a dragoon holding the bridle of one of the mules that pulled their buckboard, and thought then that they were going to seize the supplies they had just purchased for the farm.

"Stand there," Captain Bordon ordered. Waldron stopped on his spot, looking down at the ground and hoping that Miss Burwell had made it to the forest and was hidden well.

"You're under arrest," Tavington said as he sneered in contempt down at the overseer.

"By what authority?" asked Jake Waldron.

"His Majesty's," Bordon answered sternly.

"Why?" the Burwell's faithful servant asked. He thought he could buy Betsy a few more minutes of time to get away if he queried a bit.

"Aiding and abetting rebel traitors," the colonel answered.

"We do not," Mr. Waldron said proudly, lifting his head up. "You can't prove it!"

"Oh _yes_ we can," Bordon answered in an assured and resolute voice.

Still crouching in the hedgerow, Betsy worried for Mr. Waldron, not wanting to leave him behind with the British. She had only heard as much as him being found and was too far away to hear anything else. The poor girl was near tears now that they had him. She didn't know whether to stay and try to help him, or to heed his advice and run away.

After a tense moment, she remembered how Waldron feared for her, pulling her from the store to protect her behind the building. She recalled how resolute and firm his directions were to her: to run and hide in the woods. The girl had known him her whole life to be a wise man and trusted by her family. Finally, she decided to follow his request and run away, feeling that he would somehow be alright for he was smart in mind and strong in body; she assumed he could take care of himself.

Hesitating again, Betsy quickly studied the cornfield before her, convincing herself that she would have to run as fast as possible without being seen to get to the woods. After inhaling a breath of courage, she let it out, and RAN!

Miss Burwell found herself bolting through the crops and across the neatly plowed dirt as fast as her legs would carry her. She didn't look back, fixing her gaze on the woods ahead. And soon, the girl smiled though her legs burned, as she neared the halfway point of her run.

"There she is!"

Betsy heard the voices shouting that she was spotted. Then she heard guns firing and hoof beats. Still the girl didn't look back. She kept her eyes on the forest and concentrated on running into it and finding a hiding place soon!

As she sprinted in the dirt, her mouth dropped open as she saw a lone dragoon on horse, racing from the perimeter of the field right toward her. It was as if he had appeared out of nowhere, but in reality, the rider had skirted the meadow, spotting her and wheeling his horse back around to cut her off. The young woman hadn't seen him in her resolution to get to the woods. His sword was in hand and held high above his head, ready to bring it down in a killing slice. Betsy stopped in her tracks, her momentum throwing her forward face first into the dirt.

Miss Burwell scrambled to her feet as fast as possible. She instantly ran from the horseman, back toward the town. As she did, she could see commotion between the buildings. Red and green uniforms were blocking the lane she had crossed moments ago, with some starting to move into the field toward her.

Good Lord, they're going to run me down, she thought, her mind screaming in fright. With the enemy chasing her, coming towards her, and blocking her way, she caught sight of a thicket to her left and dashed toward it as no redcoats seemed to be near it. Betsy's lungs were burning now as well as her leg muscles from running as hard as she could.

After what seemed an eternity, Miss Burwell finally made it to the thicket, which was so dense and overgrown with shrubs and stickers that a rider would not be able to make it in on horseback. As she worked her way into it, she felt thorns tearing at her skirt, hanging her up, making her unable to move further. She crouched a bit and hoped that the redcoats would decide against attempting to follow her in. As she did, she gave her skirt a tug, freeing it from the branches which had caught it. The shrubs' thorns exacted the price of a tear in the material in exchange for the garment's freedom.

Betsy could see that they had given up their chase though the rider circled the thicket, obviously looking it over for a way to get in. She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw the man ride away. The girl felt even better when the men on foot left quickly as well, ordered back to Devington's main avenue.

While catching a badly needed breath, Betsy looked around and panicked when she realized that this patch of dense shrubs that now harbored her was closer to the town then she had originally judged. She could once again see the outbuildings behind the homes on the main road. The girl wasn't sure now what she should do.

Frightened townspeople watched the action, aghast and in disbelief. Some were staring out from their windows in the safety of their homes. Yet some villagers had been brave enough to venture into the street to peruse the action. All of them kept a safe distance between themselves and the raiding cavalry.

Colonel Tavington, irritated that the Burwell girl had put up a chase and made the apprehension difficult and time consuming, knew he had to get the situation back under control and end this immediately. He jumped down from his horse and looked at the thicket where the girl hid, then over at his adjutant, still holding a bound Mr. Waldron.

"Bring that man to me!" he barked. He watched as Captain Bordon took hold of Waldron's upper arm and marched him before his superior.

Tavington then made a long, drawn out show of reloading his pistol in front of the prisoner and the stunned villagers. Betsy watched this from the bushes, her mind running crazily with disbelief at what was transpiring.

"Jake Waldron," Tavington began in a sinister tone, "you are under arrest for aiding rebels. That makes you a traitor and an enemy of His Majesty. And I have been charged to act in the King's behalf in his absence. As an agent of the Crown, I have the authority to pass judgment and carry out punishment for crimes against it."

Mr. Waldron's mouth dropped open as his eyes rounded in wonder at this commander. The man was so startled that he couldn't even find the voice to protest.

Betsy, too, stared in amazement at the spectacle before her. The girl could not believe all this was happening, and so fast. Still, she was afraid, and stayed firmly in the bushes.

Tavington continued on in his ominous tone. "Kneel!" he ordered of the overseer.

Jake Waldron drew a breath, turned his back to Colonel Tavington, and knelt before him. The man closed his eyes and prayed silently.

"Waldron, you are a traitor," he said to the overseer. Then he looked about at the crowd of townspeople that had ventured a bit closer, many of them wide eyed and mute with disbelief and terror.

"This man is a traitor!" Tavington yelled at the crowd assembled, wanting all to hear the charge, and making sure they did. William's steel blues eyes were cold as he cast hard edged looks at them, wanting to drive his point home.

The dragoon commander once again turned his eyes back to Waldron, kneeling helplessly before him. "In the name of King George, you are to be executed!"

Betsy gasped audibly, clapping her hand over her mouth in horror. How did this get out of hand so fast, she wondered inwardly. Her eyes brimmed with tears at the thought of her family's faithful servant, a good man, giving his life for this. She held her breath as she continued to watch the events unfold.

Tavington took a couple of steps closer to where Waldron knelt. He then cocked his pistol, which everyone could hear through the stunned silence that had enveloped all who watched. The colonel then slowly raised his arm, and pointed the gun at the back of the overseer's head.

Miss Burwell closed her eyes, waiting for a gunshot that she didn't want to hear. After a silence which seemed an eternity, Betsy could take the tension no longer and broke, beginning to weep.

"No! No Don't!" she cried from where she hid. The girl then emerged slowly from the thicket.

"Don't! Please, don't!" she exclaimed, her voice broken in tears. Five dragoons, nearby still seated on their mounts, quickly steered their horses toward her. They gathered the huge beasts around her in a circle, pinning her in.

Tavington uncocked the pistol and quickly holstered it. He suppressed a smile, as inside he was laughing in joy and triumph. His little bluff had worked, drawing Miss Burwell out. He had correctly assumed that a teenage girl would not be able to bear the responsibility of—nor want to watch—the execution of a trusted family friend.

"Seize her!" Tavington ordered. Two dragoons moved in quickly on her, one holding her while the other bound her hands in front of her tightly. She saw through teary eyes the ginger haired captain take hold of Mr. Waldron's bicep and help him back to his feet. This gave her some relief in the midst of her own fright.

The girl looked down at her bound wrists, then up at the sea of red jackets staring menacingly at her. Her dress was soiled from her fall in the dirt and torn from the thorn bush. Betsy Burwell sniffled as tears blurred her vision, the girl so scared she couldn't think straight.

Here she stood, a sheep amongst the wolves, worried and with no clue of what was to become of her person.

/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/

**Jesuit's Bark:** bark from a South American tree containing large amounts of Quinine (pronounced Kwy-nine), used in combatting Malaria. A European Jesuit Priest discovered it, hence its name. He observed that the Indians there used it to battle Malaria. The priest brought it home to the Old World and it found its way into trade with South America. It was sought after fiercely for the New World in trade as Malaria and other mosquito borne illnesses ran rampant there. While alot of medicinal herbs could be grown in colonial home gardens, this particular tree could not be grown in the colonies so the Jesuit's Bark had to be purchased from an apothecary. Small amounts of Quinine can be extracted from grapefruit and was a poor substitute used back then if the Jesuit's Bark could not be purchased. Quinine was, in Colonial America, the most effective way to battle Malaria and its recurrent fevers.


	7. Chapter 6: Condemned

**Author's note: Please let me take this opportunity to apologizefor not updating sooner. Real life, job stress, illness, etc, have gotten in the way of the fun of writing. The other stuff takes precedence over the writing. Thanks for your understanding and your patience! As always, thanks for reading the story!**

Chapter 6 Condemned 

Betsy stood there, benumbed. She was warned to run as far away from these men as she could. Instead, she gave herself up to them; these redcoats whom she'd heard so many rumors of. The girl did it to stop the very brutality that she'd heard so much about, and was about to see before her. She couldn't bear to have Mr. Waldron's blood on her hands.

Within the numbness, she suddenly found herself being hustled toward the wagon. Miss Burwell was helped into the vehicle and seated in the thing amongst the crates and bags. She looked up to see Mr. Waldron being pushed into the small empty spot next to her where the cargo had been nudged aside to make a space.

The two detainees, bound and seated in the buckboard, were silent for a moment as they watched the buzz of activity around them. They stayed quiet, studying the cavalrymen, all but the two guarding them at gunpoint gathered about the colonel and his second in command obviously receiving their orders.

After a minute, Betsy turned her head and found her overseer glaring at her. A startled look crossed her face, her eyes rounding in question.

"I told you to run," he murmured through gritted teeth, his anger with her showing.

"I did!" she whispered back.

"Well, you obviously didn't run fast enough or you wouldn't be here," he proclaimed in sarcasm.

"I ran as fast as I could toward the woods," she answered back, annoyed at the man whose life she had just saved at the price of her own freedom.

"Yeah. And what happened?" Waldron's annoyance was clear. He had felt he owed it to Colonel Burwell to help protect Betsy while the officer was away. The farm hand knew what these soldiers were all about.

"A dragoon on horseback cut me off," she replied with a sigh. "He forced me back across the field."

"Why did you surrender?"

Betsy's face registered shock, wondering why the man would even ask her such a thing. "I couldn't allow your execution."

"It was a bluff," Waldron guessed with assuredness.

"How would you know that?"

"I just figured it, that's all," the overseer answered.

Betsy recalled the image of Mr. Waldron's shock at being asked to kneel before the colonel, the closing of his eyes, and how his lips moved ever so slightly, muttering some prayer of deliverance. Her own exasperation with her father's employee showing, she now asked, "And your reaction to your near execution, was that a bluff on your part?"

Waldron looked down at the wood of the wagon, like a guilty man caught in a lie. "No, I was scared as Hell."

He looked up at Miss Burwell, her eyes showing regret. Indeed the girl felt badly that she had become upset with the man and had made that last sarcastic remark.

Mr. Waldron spoke again, his voice painted with honesty. "There was a strange sort of peace, though, in hoping that you'd escaped them."

The girl was touched. This man, whom had been an employee of her family since the say she was born, had tried to protect her. I suppose he would do nothing less than that for my father, she thought. Betsy said nothing, shaking her head and looking down.

Waldron heaved a sigh, looked up and the sky and spoke again. "It must be my destiny to die soon. I was spared from death at Tavington's hand, but I fear I won't be so lucky when your father finds out that you fell into redcoat hands on my watch. He will have my head."

Betsy looked at the overseer and grimaced. She opened her mouth to speak, wanting to comfort the man but was quickly cut off by one of their dragoon guards.

"Quiet both of you!" he warned, wanting to put a firm end to anything conspiratorial.

After a moment of quiet, Mr. Waldron and Betsy turned their heads to catch sight of the dragoons falling out of their circle around their commanders. They watched anxiously as the red and green uniformed men mounted their horses. Then the two looked at each other, exchanging looks of alarm.

In an instant they were off, the wagon jolting hard forward. Both silently wondered Tavington's legion had planned for them. Maybe they wanted the supplies? Perhaps they were interested in the vehicle. They had both heard that even though the British had money and were known to pay local loyalists, and even accommodating rebels for commandeered objects and foodstuffs, they were also known to make examples of rebels by outright stealing. Mr. Waldron tried to think positively, hoping that the cavalry might just take the wagon and supplies within and cut the two of them loose somewhere along the way. Sure, it would be money lost for the plantation, but a drop in the bucket of proceeds already lost during this war, and a small price to pay for their lives.

Betsy sat still, petrified, as she watched the familiar scenery of the village fade into the surrounding countryside. Waldron, knowing she was afraid, discreetly reached his bound hands over close to her and took one of her hands. She held it firmly, nearly squeezing it in her fright.

The wagon was escorted by the dragoons, a few in front and a few in back. One of the men drove the wagon, his horse tethered to the back of the vehicle, trotting along behind it. Miss Burwell, her back to the front, felt the wagon curve onto another road. She soon recognized it as the York Road.

After another fifteen minutes, she felt the wagon slow to a stop. Waldron turned his head slightly, enough to look to the front just over his shoulder. They were at the fork in the road. He glimpsed Captain Bordon and Colonel Tavington conferring quietly, then saw the second in command nod to the right. Soon the wagon veered the same direction, moving down this road.

The same event had not been lost on Miss Burwell, looking about at the scenery along this road—scenery that she'd seen a hundred times before. The girl knew exactly where they were. And with this move onto the right hand fork, it would be the same route as if they were heading back to their farm.

Betsy's heart soared. Maybe they were headed home, she wondered. My God, they can have whatever they want from home so long as they go away forever and leave us in peace, the girl thought.

The young lady looked at Mr. Waldron , daring to show a bit of a smile. She mouthed the word "home". The man returned her look with one of caution, knowing that they weren't out of trouble yet.

The group soon turned down yet another road, this one the lane that the Burwell plantation was on. And when they made the final turn onto the plantation, Betsy could hardly contain herself, feeling a safety that she only felt here on the farm. As they came up the driveway to the main house, she turned her head to look over her shoulder at the house, and the elation she'd felt only a moment ago dropped hard into dread.

She saw a small group of horses—dragoon horses—tied up outside the house. Betsy then spotted the slaves and indentured servants lined up and seated on the lawn in front of the house, armed cavalrymen hovering over them, their muskets trained on them. A few yards behind, two redcoats stood sentry on the porch, their weapons out and ready to use, as well.

Tavington and company had gone to the Burwell plantation first, a couple of hours before, looking for Betsy. When they found she wasn't there, a small detachment stayed behind to guard the inhabitants, while the others rode into the village to seek her out.

Soon the mounted escort moved away from the wagon as it neared the house. Miss Burwell watched the riders move their horses to different positions about the lawn and near the house, as if taking up battle defenses. And in the next minute, the buckboard came to a stop in front of her home and in front of the slaves and servants lined up and sitting on the grass.

It was an abrupt halt, jarring the two captives within the vehicle. And though Betsy saw the distressed looks on the faces of her people seated on the lawn, she exhaled a sigh of relief at being home, a place where she felt safe—even with invaders afoot.

She and Mr. Waldron were helped out of the wagon. Their wrists still bound, they were led up the steps of the porch and into the house. Once inside, the two swallowed hard, both feeling dread rising inside them at the sight.

Before them, the parlor had been ransacked. And seeing what they could of the hallway beyond, they could see two books flopped open on the floor. And amidst all this mess in the main room sat the house servants. They were all quiet, looking frightened and unsure. Two dragoons stood guard in the room with them, one stationed at the front door, one at the entry into the hallway. Both brandished their guns, discouraging any foolhardiness.

Betsy heard boots on the stairway outside. As she turned her head toward the sound, she caught a glimpse of the lawn outside, the slaves still seated under guard, some redcoats on horseback, most milling about, looking cautious all about the place. The commander soon entered the house with his second in command, Bordon, and another adjutant, Lieutenant Wentworth on his heels.

The officer, Wentworth, stayed only a moment. After he looked about the room at everyone, then glanced at his superiors, he then turned and trotted back out of the house. Betsy could see out of the front window that he had taken up station on the veranda, overlooking the ease of activity on the green before him.

The girl shivered as the two officers seemed a menacing presence, strong, and towering over everyone. A breath caught in Betsy's throat as she watched the dragoon leaders taking their riding gloves off and stuffing them at their waistlines between their saber belts which crisscrossed their bodies.

"Miss Burwell," Tavington began in an authoritative tone, "we were quite disappointed when we arrived here earlier and your father and brother weren't here to greet us."

Still looking at the man, her lips parted a bit as she sucked in a small breath. She had to think fast to answer him. The girl tried, but her voice was trapped in her throat. When she didn't speak right away, Mr. Hantz, seated with the others, spoke.

"We received word from the master," he began in his German accent, standing as he did, "that he has been detained. He is still helping his sister with the settling of his brother-in-laws affairs."

"Hmm," Tavington said, raising his eyebrows. Betsy glanced at him, wondering if the officer believed it. She hoped he did.

"And your brother, Miss Burwell. Where is he?"

She had hoped she wouldn't have to talk to the man. The young lady calmed herself inside as best as she could. "He is two farms over, at the Brayton's house," she answered as relaxed and assuredly as she could. "Mr. Brayton has taken to bed with illness. Steven is helping them."

"Is he, now?" the cavalry commander questioned.

Betsy shook her head mutely. She watched as the colonel and his cinnamon haired adjutant exchanged sly glances. The girl felt fear beginning to swirl in the pit of her stomach.

"Then perhaps you should explain this," Tavington said. "Captain."

The colonel's aide de camp stepped forward, pulling a letter from inside of his coat. He handed it to Betsy.

She looked at the letter, seal broken, but folded back into delivery form. It was addressed to Governor Patrick Henry, Williamsburg, Virginia. Betsy didn't recognize the writing.

"What's this?" she asked, looking at the officer with a befuddled look on her face.

"A letter from your father," Bordon answered tersely. "We intercepted it."

Miss Burwell looked down at the letter, turning it over in her hands a couple of times, studying it. "That's ridiculous," she proclaimed. "That's not his handwriting."

"Read it," Tavington ordered.

"Read it? Why should I read correspondence that has obviously been forged?" she protested questioningly. She held her arm out straight, trying to give the letter back to Bordon.

"Read it!" the colonel barked, taking a menacing step toward the girl, eyes narrowed at her. His serious countenance made the girl shrink back a step, pulling her arm back toward her body, letter still in hand.

She opened the letter then stopped abruptly. She found another letter tucked inside this one. The seal was broken on it, as well. Betsy was startled to find it addressed to Major George Rogers Clark, Harrodstown, Kentucky Territory. The girl stared at it, dumbfounded.

Hugh Bordon took note of how Miss Burwell seemed surprised at finding a letter to Major Clark. Her surprised expression confirmed the intelligence obtained from his spies and sources. He was good at that: gauging people's reactions and expressions. It was finely honed from so much time spent in interrogations. He was good now at surmising who was telling the truth and who was lying.

"Yes. That one," the red haired second in command ordered. "Read it aloud."

Betsy could not understand why they were making her read a fake letter out loud. The girl opened the inner letter and laid it atop the letter to Governor Henry.

She swallowed hard and began speaking the words of the note aloud.

"_Major Clark,_

_I am in hope that you are well and successful in the wilderness campaign. This letter is a matter of urgency and I am desperate for you to receive it. I have taken the liberty of writing to Governor Henry in hopes that he will release you on an emergency furlough. _

_This is in regards to our gentlemen's agreement made over a year back when last we met in Charles Towne. By my choice, my daughter is still bound to you." _

Betsy stopped reading in confusion. 'Bound to you?' What does he mean, she questioned in her mind. This was the first she was hearing of this. Both her mother and father had never mentioned anything to her of this intention. But this isn't father's writing. Yet the letter can't be a fraud. Whoever wrote it spoke like her father and seemed to know intimate information. She was puzzled.

Captain Bordon suppressed a smile of satisfaction. He could already tell what she was thinking: that the letter wasn't fake. "Go on, Miss Burwell."

Then he and Colonel Tavington exchanged sly, knowing looks. Both were delighted that she was playing right into their hands.

She closed her eyes, keeping her head down, not wanting to have to look into either of the dragoon commanders' suspicious eyes. Betsy opened her eyes again and read aloud again.

"_I must tell you that Steven ran away and joined the militia against my wishes, leaving Betsy there alone in charge of the farm. And while she has been doing the job of running the plantation, I am worried for her safety. The war here in the east is shifting more and more into the Carolinas by the week. Just days ago a unit a Redcoats—cavalry—namely that butcher Colonel Tavington and his dragoons, raided the farm. They are apparently now encamped in the area and are scaring the Hell out of the locals. I realize that it is no longer safe to leave Betsy there. Both our positions as leaders of rebels, me as her father and you as her intended betrothed, make her a target._

_Due to the urgency of this situation, I am waiving a formal courtship and plighting your troth to her immediately. I beg you to leave as soon as you can for home and make Betsy your wife, then take her under your protection away from here, maybe to your parents' estate in Virginia where she shall be safe." _

Betsy's voice broke as she spoke the last words, her hand covering her mouth. The girl's eyes rounded, then misted over. She was stunned. Betrothed? Married? No courtship? While she found George Clark handsome and liked him and enjoyed the time they'd spent together in Charles Towne, she had only just met him. She remembered thinking that she would like to be courted by him. But her father wanting her to marry Clark already, without spending more time with him? She wanted to get to know a husband before she married.

Miss Burwell took a deep breath, trying to steady herself to finish the letter. After a moment, she continued on reading out loud.

"_I will give you a handsome dowry for her as quick as this war is over. Until Betsy is safely married and with you, I have arranged safe lodgings for her and am currently endeavoring to have her removed to sanctuary. _

_Please, I implore you, as soon as you can get a leave, to make your way to me. The generals will know where my forces are encamped._

_Hope to see you again soon. Your future father-in-law,_

_I remain,_

_Colonel Harry Burwell."_

Indeed the letter—both letters rather—were not fakes written by the Redcoats or some other interested party. They were notes from Betsy's father, dictated by him and written in the hand of his aide de camp, Major Zeller. The girl wasn't familiar with the adjutant's handwriting as her father's letters to home were always written by him alone.

She stood there, stunned and silent, still in disbelief that her father had her practically married off to an officer she hardly knew. Betsy longed for her mother, knowing that she could explain things, make this all better. The poor girl was confused and scared. While she wanted to be married, just as all of her young friends were becoming wives, she wanted—and needed— the proper courtship beforehand. But also to her now, she wondered if her father loved and cared for her—this war seemed his only concern. She had begged him to protect her in some way after Steven had left, and after being told months ago that this was her sacrifice, and being left there with servants to 'fend for herself', _this_ was his alternative. To give her to another man in a quick marriage so that she would become her husband's responsibility, then her father would be absolutely free to pursue leadership and winning this war.

Captain Bordon reached forward and took the letters from Miss Burwell's hand. She let them go freely, still too shocked by the contents and her own emotions over it to offer any kind of fight.

The second in command folded the correspondence and tucked them back into his jacket. He exchanged a glance with his superior, both men smiling in nearly a sinister manner. They now knew by her dumbfounded expression that they'd obviously hit a nerve. The two dragoon leaders were quite satisfied. The intercepted letters did the trick—revealing new information and confirming old intelligence.

Colonel Tavington licked his lips as he looked down at the floor. He brought his head up slowly and tilted his head to the side, staring straight into the girl's eyes with his cold, blue eyes.

"Miss Burwell, do cease with your cock and bull story," the dragoon commander scoffed, bringing the conversation back to the lies she told of her father's and brother's whereabouts.

Her eyes widened, totally forgetting herself, that she needed to keep a calm and believable persona, even though she'd let that all slip just a moment ago as she read aloud her father's damning letter. She stammered. "I….um…I—"

"Do you take His Majesty's soldiers for fools, girl?" Tavington interrupted, harassing the young lady.

"No….I...," her voice choked off her words with fright.

"Captain," he deferred, turning his head to look at his second in command.

"You will turn over your plantation ledgers immediately," Bordon ordered.

Betsy was mute for a moment, unsure of what to say, her mind a blank. Then she remembered the fake accounting book. Yes—she could give them that one and hopefully, it would get them on their way, leaving the farm in piece.

"Yes, of course," she complied, her voice audibly trembling. The girl turned and walked down the hall toward her father's office with Colonel Tavington two steps behind. The privates guarding the servants, along with Captain Bordon, were left behind in the parlor, keeping the atmosphere thick with fear and tension.

In just a minute Miss Burwell and the dragoon commander reached the farm's office. From the door she could see that the chamber had already been ransacked. Did they not think to look behind the picture in the wall safe, she thought? The fraud ledgers were put in such an obvious place to be found easily by intruders if the situation arose.

Tavington entered the office behind her, closing the door. He made his way to the desk. Betsy stood near the door, not wanting to be near the man.

A puzzled look spread across her face as she looked at the desk. The fake ledger book, she could tell by the brown cover on it, lay open on the desk.

"Your men must have found the book," she said. "That's it on the desk."

Tavington looked at her with those cold blue eyes, making her uncomfortable and wanting to run. "No, Miss Burwell. The _real_ books."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean—"

"Miss Burwell," he interrupted with a growl. "Do not take me for a fool. I know you have two sets of books."

Betsy started to get scared, having hoped that the redcoats would accept the fake books and be satisfied. "No. Those are—"

"We know your father hasn't sold at market in months," the officer stated. The fake ledgers had dozens of entries of selling at area markets. In reality, they had only sold enough to sustain the farm. "You've been providing stores and animals for the rebels."

"No, we…uh…" the young lady stammered.

"Enough of this! Where are the books?" Tavington snarled, his voice at a loud level as his fist slammed onto the desktop. Miss Burwell stepped backwards in fear. Her back was pushed against the bookshelf and frankly, she wished she could dissolve into the wall at the moment.

Suddenly there was a thump—a familiar one of wood hitting the floor. Betsy's heart caught in her throat, knowing that Tavington's fist jarring the desk tripped the hidden compartment open. She closed her eyes and cringed as she heard the rustle of paper falling onto the floor beneath the desk.

Colonel Tavington heard it, too. Betsy felt a sick feeling seize her stomach as she saw the commander's tall frame bend downwards. "Ah, what's this?," he asked as he reached for the black leather book and folder scattered on the floor beneath the desk.

Seeing him busy gathering the papers from off the floor, Betsy reached discreetly behind her back, her hand probing the bookshelf. She found the stack of books arranged at the end of a row of books acting as a bookend to them. The girl stretched her hand and her fingers soon felt the cold metal of the object she was looking before. Miss Burwell ceased her movements quickly when she saw the colonel stand back up with the real ledgers which had been hidden, now in his hands.

She kept an eye on him as he flipped through the pages of the ledger. The girl watched as he grinned in satisfaction, oohing and ahhing at page after page of entries in the book detailing the farm's activities aiding rebels. Her fingers moved again, edging a loaded pistol—the one they kept hidden in the office if occasion warranted—carefully out from behind the stack of books. Her hand had also touched the bag of powder placed next to it, ready for a reload if necessary.

The dragoon leader continued on, now comparing dates from the fake book to the entries in the real ledger, finding the discrepancies, in line with what Bordon had informed him as found in the area intelligence. Next he opened the folder to find statements to the rebel government and receipts for payment from them as soon as funds could be issued.

Busy with the receipts, Betsy pulled the gun free of the books, careful not to upset them, and held it behind her back. She took a deep breath to find the courage, then slowly brought the gun out in front of her, aiming it in the Colonel's direction.

The officer looked up to find the young girl standing there with a weapon pointed at him. His moment of jubilation over finding the damning evidence in the ledgers was spoiled by this rebel. He was infuriated. Saying nothing, he looked straight at Burwell's daughter, trying to anticipate what she would do next. She had surprised him as he honestly thought she didn't have the guts to have made a move like this.

"Now, Colonel," she said, steadying her voice as much as she could, "Leave the books there, then take your men and get out!"

Tavington arched an eyebrow at the girl, teasing her. He moved away from the desk and toward the window. An intense silence passed between the two as both stood their ground.

The quiet was broken when Betsy cocked the pistol. She raised her arm straight and aimed right at the dragoon.

William didn't think she had it in her to pull the trigger. He would either have to lunge for the gun and overpower her, which he was sure he could do, or have to talk her out of shooting. If he wrestled for the weapon, already cocked, it could go off. But he decided that reasoning with her would do no good given her boldness at coming this far already in pulling the damned pistol on him.

He looked at her hand and arm and noticed that they were trembling. The man watched as she put her other hand up to steady the shaking. Tavington could tell that she was unsure of herself, and that was all he needed to know. Instead of physicality or reasoning, he decided to go another route.

"Go ahead," he began. "Shoot me."

Betsy said nothing, but steadied her arm again with her free hand. She tried with all her might to hold the damned thing steady.

He knew he could make her nervous, thus confounding her already shaky aim even more. "I'll wager that you couldn't hit the broadside of a barn," he taunted. He was banking on the notorious inaccuracy of the pistol, and the young girl's uncertainty as to whether or not she could shoot another human being.

Her eyes narrowed at him. "Don't make me do this," she proclaimed boldly. "Just take your men and leave in peace."

"That's not in my plans," he chuckled in an evil tone. "If you want me to go, you will have to shoot me."

"Don't make me!" she screamed.

"Go ahead. I dare you."

Betsy closed her eyes and squeezed the trigger. The bang was so loud it made her ears ring. The kick of the weapon thrust her arms into the air and pushed her body back into the shelf. The window of the office broke, the bullet speeding through it making the cracking glass sound nearly as loud as the boom of the gunshot.

Next she heard banging on the closed door, then the deep voice of Captain Bordon. "What happened?"

"Gun discharged," Tavington answered through the door as he moved from where he stood. "We're fine in here."

That is when Betsy realized that she hadn't hit Tavington. Her hands were shaking so much that her aim was off. The shot went just to the side of him, going through the window instead.

The girl saw the officer moving toward her with fury in his eyes. She dropped the pistol and turned for the door as she saw the colonel lunging toward her.

Indeed the man was full of rage at the girl. He couldn't believe she had the gall to pull a weapon on him. And any control over himself that he had went out the window with the flying bullet at the fact that she had been audacious enough to call his bluff and shoot.

The man grabbed her and pulled her away from the door. "No!" she shouted as she struggled to get free of his grip. He turned the girl to where she faced him and he shoved her back into the bookshelf.

The girl groaned in pain, feeling a little dazed as pain shot through her back. Soon she found the colonel, his back to her, pushing his body weight back on her, effectively holding her there against the wall unit. He was wedged so powerfully against her that she felt she might suffocate.

"Miss Burwell, you have ruined your chance for any mercy, you insolent little Yankee!"

His hands moved behind him, feeling for her arms. She swatted at them as best as she could, trying desperately to fight him off. "I….do not….take….orders….from….rebels!" he snarled, accenting each word.

The colonel finally caught her left arm and pulled it around his body to where her hand was in front of him. He held her wrist tightly, squeezing it to keep her from making a fist.

Betsy struggled behind him, still trying to get free. "No! Please! Let me go!"

"So, what is to be your punishment for lying, hiding evidence, and attempted murder, hmm?"

"Please! I'll do anything!," she pleaded, now knowing he meant to harm her.

"It's a little late, my dear," he said, pushing back against her, fighting to hold her in place. "You had your chance to cooperate and chose not to."

He fought to hold her arm still, which she was trying to pull back through his arm. William's free right hand reached into his belt and found his holstered knife. "Maybe I'll incapacitate your hands so that you can't fake a ledger or point a weapon," he grunted as she still struggled against him.

Finally able to free his knife from its scabbard, he held it up as his left hand squeezed Miss Burwell's left wrist even harder.

"No! Please don't!" she begged tearfully.

With that, the man turned the knife and quickly pulled the blade across her left palm, slicing it open. The large gash bled profusely almost immediately.

The girl let out a howl in pain as she felt a searing in her palm. Next she saw flashes of light before her eyes and felt dizzy. Betsy sobbed hard in the agony of the wound, and though it was a superficial, it was deep in the top layer of tissue, and the young woman felt sure the officer had filleted her hand.

In the parlor, the group of servants and dragoons guarding them both heard a blood curdling scream come from the office. That coupled with the gunshot heard an a couple of moments before, Waldron and the other farmhand, Mr. Hantz, felt compelled to run from the room to their young mistress' rescue. They were sure Tavington was killing her.

As they both jumped to their feet, the privates moved toward them with muskets up, in a stance ready to shoot. "Stay where you are!" Captain Bordon warned. Both men quickly sat back down, both shaking with anger that they were unable to do anything for Miss Burwell.

In the office, Betsy was incapacitated with the pain in her hand, so Tavington no longer felt the need to hold the girl steady against the wall. As soon as his weight shifted, she had pulled her hand back to her body and was now holding it with her right hand and weeping as waves of pain shot up her arm.

The girl, distracted with the wound, didn't even see Tavington moving the blood stained knife to his other hand. He quickly grabbed her right hand, then pushed his body back against hers in the same position as before, his back against her front, pinning her to the bookshelf. The officer's right hand this time held her right arm through his and around his body. His hand squeezed the wrist hard, splaying the hand open before him.

"Oh God NO! Please No!", Betsy cried. She knew he wasn't through with her.

Just then, he dragged the blade across her right palm, slicing it open as well. The girl yelped again as he did, seeing wavy columns of light before her eyes. Her hand burned as the pain travelled up her arm in an instant.

The officer moved away from her, taking his weight off her body. She slumped to the floor, both her arms instinctively pulled in against her body, blood pouring from the wounds. Betsy felt nauseous as she saw the blood oozing onto the floor in front of her, and saw it staining her dress.

She laid there curled up, exhausted from the struggle, her strength and will no longer there as the pain of both hands consumed her being.

Colonel Tavington spotted a rag on the desk used to wipe ink from the hands and used it to clean the blood from his knife. He put the dagger away and scooped up the legitimate ledgers, tucking them under his left arm snugly against his body. With his right hand, he reached down and pulled Miss Burwell up off the floor as if she was a rag doll, for she gave no resistance.

He opened the office door and practically dragged the girl down the hall back toward the parlor. Once there, he heard an audible gasp from the group gathered in the room as they saw Miss Burwell and the pathetic condition that she was in. He dropped her on the floor near the door.

Seeing the blood stains on her dress and the blood on her hands, Mrs. Leyanova bolted from where she was sitting and flew to the girl's side. Betsy was curled into a fetal position, trying to keep conscious. Another wave of nausea hit the girl, and then she vomited onto the parlor floor.

The matronly servant stayed next to her, holding her body as the girl continued to retch.

Mr. Waldron and Mr. Hantz could stand no more of the barbarity and both jumped up from their seats in protest.

"You fiend!" Waldron shouted. "What have you done to her?"

"She is just a girl. Why did you have to hurt her?" Hantz asked in his German accent.

"She pulled a gun on me," Tavington replied coolly. "I merely rendered her hands useless for awhile so that she can cause no more trouble."

Lieutenant Wentworth had been watching from the door while out on the porch. He called for the medic. Soon the private came through the door without his field medical kit, having left it on his saddlebag.

"Bind her wounds, Gilbertson," Tavington ordered the private who was the medic for the dragoons.

The young orderly dropped to his knees before the girl, then realized he didn't have his kit with him. He pulled his knife from his belt. The man raised the girl's skirts slightly and quickly cut two strips from her petticoat, amidst gasps at his boldness from the servants watching in horror.

He quickly bandaged both her hands, but thought to himself that if wouldn't be long before the blood would leak through the dressings.

As he rose when his task was completed, Mrs. Leyanova pulled girl's limp body into her arms. Mr. Waldron spoke up boldly.

"You have what you want," he challenged, not making any attempt to contain his disgust, "and you've made your point. Leave her and go."

"Yes, we intend to go," Tavington said curtly with a devilish smile. "Men."

The men began to step back slowly, their muskets still trained on the group. Tavington reached down and pulled Betsy up from the floor. She let out a horrid whimper as he did, his grip and the strain of the pulling on her body just adding to the searing pain in her hands. Once on her feet, Tavington held her steady as Captain Bordon wrapped a black blindfold around her eyes.

With this, Betsy revived a bit from the agony in her hands and began to panic. "No! No!," she cried. "Please! Don't!" She weakly fought in the colonel's grip, knowing that being blindfolded was not a good thing.

Soon Tavington was leading her toward the door. Blinded as she was, she dug her heels into the floor as best as she could, trying to resist being led away from the safety of her servants and home. She sobbed as she was being taken.

Waldron went after them, reaching for Betsy. He was quickly stopped and restrained by the medic and another private, who quickly put a knife to the man's throat to subdue him. The overseer protested even with the blade held against his neck, ready to slice him at any moment.

"She's just a young girl!" he shouted after the officers as he stood restrained. "She's frightened!"

Tavington handed the girl off to the captain to lead down the steps of the porch. He addressed Mr. Waldron audaciously. "Yes! She is awfully young….and innocent. Perhaps she will become a woman at our hands." William loved to taunt rebels, and a sinister shadow moved over his face as he did.

"You wouldn't dare," Waldron confronted. He knew these men had been known to take advantage of women.

Tavington chuckled, then raised his eyebrows. His expression turned serious as he looked the Burwell's overseer directly in the eyes.

"Try me," warned William flatly.

With that, the dragoons moved from the house. The servants quickly followed them out onto the lawn, where they saw their mistress being put on Captain Bordon's horse on the saddle in front of him. The same two privates that held them under guard in the house now stood on the green preventing them from aiding their mistress. They could do nothing but watch helplessly.

Tavington, now mounted on his horse, rode over to in front of the servants from the house, who had joined the slaves where they were on the lawn. He looked down at all of them in disdain.

"Don't try to follow us," he warned. "We will kill you."

The two privates guarding the group were the last to mount. Even from their horses, they kept their eyes on the Burwell's servants.

Betsy could tell that she was on Captain Bordon's horse, riding with him. His deep voice gave him away. She soon heard Tavington give the order to leave and felt the second in command give a yank on the reins, and felt the horse move forward. She was afraid she would fall from the horse even though the officer's arms held her tightly.

The Burwell plantation servants and slaves watched as the dragoons rode down the driveway with the young girl. Many had tears in their eyes as they watched, unsure if they would ever see the girl again.

Betsy, too, cried tears that soon dampened her blindfold. Her hands ached and throbbed in pain, and her heart hurt equally with sorrow, not knowing what was to become of her, and sorry that she could not even look upon her beloved home as she was being taken away from it.


	8. Chapter 7: In British Custody

**Author's note: Let me begin with my usual and customary apology for not updating sooner. Real life is just so busy with a 6 1/2 year old first grader with homework, house, husband, working full time, etc... All that is priority and just doesn't leave alot of time for writing. Anyway, thanks for your sustained patience and for reading this story. I will try to update sooner, but I know you all understand that real life creeps in there and sucks up the time. Don't get worried if you don't see an update-I haven't abandoned the story but am merely held hostage by the "lack-of-free-time troll." **

**Thanks again for your patience...I appreciate it!**

**JScorpio**

Chapter 7 In British Custody

The blindfold wrapped about Miss Burwell's head was effective for the first half of the ride away from her plantation. The thing proved useless the last miles of the trip as the girl fainted from pain and blood loss. As Betsy lay unconscious in Captain Bordon's arms atop his horse, the blood had saturated the crude dressings on her hands, leaked onto her dress and now seeped onto the officer's uniform.

After hours of riding, Tavington's legion were glad to ride through their line of vedettes positioned just off the road, then see the white of their tents ahead through the green trees. They passed the sentries on foot then rode into the glade where they made their temporary home. The small group ordered to stay behind at the camp were equally as glad to have their numbers swelled again, always on edge in case of a surprise attack on the sparsely occupied canvas village.

It was nearly evening now and the men were ready to rest in the cooling temperatures after the hot Carolina afternoon. Hugh Bordon was happy to turn the limp body of Miss Burwell over to one of the privates, after having held her, repositioning her unconscious body frequently just to keep her on his horse, and give his body some air. He was sweltering having had to hold another human against him in the heat of the day on the long ride and the wool of his uniform was soaked with sweat and now stained with the girl's blood. The officer sighed as he dismounted then led his horse into the corral. He looked over his shoulder to see private Emory disappearing into the large medical tent, second in size only to the mess and conference tent, with the Burwell girl in his arms.

Hugh decided he would deal with interrogating the young woman later. After all, there wasn't much he could with her until she revived on her own. No use trying Hartshorn and salts; they might rouse her and bring her about, but her answers wouldn't be much use to him while she was groggy. So the captain didn't say much to anyone except a few one word greetings to some of the men as he ducked into his tent. Once there the officer shimmied out of his uniform down to his breeches and kicked off his boots. Bare chested now, he picked up the soiled jacket along with a clean pair of drawers and breeches, and in his blood stained black trousers, made his way down to the nearby creek.

At the stream, he peeled off his pants and left the stained uniform on the bank as he walked into the water. It wasn't very wide nor was it deep, maybe six inches at the deepest in this vicinity. But he didn't care. It was cold and clear and that was all he needed.

Clad only in his drawers, he sat down in the creek, then laid back in it, the smooth rocks on the bottom poking only a few spots into his skin. He laid there a moment and let out an audible sigh of relief as the cold, shallow water rushed around his body. After another minute, Bordon sat up, cupped his hands in the water gathering up some, and poured it on his face. The next bit of the liquid he poured over his head. The officer unwound his russet blond hair from its tight braid and shook it loose, drops of water flying all about as he did.

With his hands as he sat there, he splashed the water up onto his torso, the water then running in rivulets off his muscular shoulders and down over his well defined chest. The man imagined he could see the steam rising off his hot skin as the ice cold water, spring fed, hit his body.

The captain slowly rose to his feet, letting the water run off his body a moment. He reluctantly left the cool brook and stepped onto the grassy bank. The officer looked down at the soiled clothes, catching sight of his genitals perfectly outlined and showing through the thin linen of his saturated drawers. He pushed the wet material down his legs and stepped out of them. It only took a few seconds for the warm breeze to dry his skin. He then pulled on the clean pair of drawers and tied the drawstring just below his navel, then slid his trousers on over them.

Bordon knelt at the water's edge and rinsed his sweat and blood soaked pants and jacket in the creek. He watched as the crimson fluid was released from the fabric as he swirled the articles about in the water. The blood, like pale red ribbons, twisted and turned about in the ripples, eventually disappearing into the stream. Hugh wrung the water from the garments then strolled up the bank toward the encampment.

The officer stopped just outside his tent and hung the damp clothing up on the line to dry, then ducked into his tent. He dawned a clean shirt, not bothering to tuck it in then quickly ran his hands through his damp hair, leaving it long and wavy. The captain grabbed a pencil and notebook and left his abode again. He tromped across the glade to the medical tent and went inside.

Once there, he looked past the operating table in the middle of the tent and two empty cots into the back part of the tent, divided by canvas curtain making a separate room. With the divider tied back, he saw that two sheets had been rigged from the tent ceiling in the shape of an "L", meeting the same shape formed by two corners meeting in the tent. The makeshift curtained area would afford the new female prisoner some privacy.

Captain Bordon walked back into the rear of the tent to find an orderly putting a poultice of buttermilk, linseed oil, and indigo root on her lacerated hands. Cleans strips of cloth bandages lay on a small tray on the foot of the cot.

"Has she come to yet?" Hugh asked.

"No," the medic answered as he reached for one of the bandages.

Bordon looked at the dragoon legion's surgeon, standing on the other side of the bed, watching as the orderly began to wrap the dressing around Miss Burwell's right hand to hold the poultice securely in place against her lacerated palm. The doctor, looking concerned, heaved a sigh and spoke.

"We'll put a plaster on the wounds tomorrow," he mentioned without fanfare. "Stitches would never hold; they'd break open with even a small movement of her fingers."

The captain nodded, trusting the physician's judgment.

Worry clouded the surgeon's face. Stanver, the doctor, was always concerned over battle injuries the men sustained or their camp illnesses—he was used to seeing it. But the man was always uneasy when an injured civilian—especially a prisoner, was brought to him. He always felt it was his primary duty to spend time, medicines, dressings, and precious Laudanum on the soldiers first and he would tend to have to use the supplies more sparingly on the captives. This would make him apprehensive then, as well, as he sometimes had no idea whether or not to strive to keep the civilian alive if he couldn't get a straight answer from an officer. He said a silent prayer of thanks that this young girl wasn't in grave danger at the time.

"How did she get the injuries?" the doctor asked. He needed to know what caused the lacerations to aid him her treatment. Yet, he surmised that he already knew the answer, and it was something he dreaded. Stanver had the feeling that their commander's ire had broken its bonds, but that wasn't a monumental task these days; Tavington seemed to have an anger fuse that grew shorter by the day.

"Punishment," Bordon answered.

While this seemed a bit severe to the doctor, he was growing used to seeing various wounds caused by some kind of consequences at the colonel's hand. Stanver shook his head.

"For what?"

"She pulled a pistol on the colonel and shot at him," replied the dragoon's second in command.

"Her aim must be bad," the doctor commented. "She obviously didn't hit Colonel Tavington as he hasn't been in her to see me yet." The man chuckled.

"Yes. The ball missed him and went through the window," Bordon informed, raising his eyebrows as he did. "I'm sure she was frightened, which hindered the shot."

"She's just a young girl," the surgeon protested.

"Yes, and a foolish one at that," Hugh agreed.

"Due to her immaturity of age," the surgeon added.

"Yes. And she has been left alone by her male relatives on her family's plantation," Bordon announced. "She's been running the thing with only servants for months. That has made her territorial and protective. Couple that with her immaturity and foolishness and you get a foolhardy boldness."

"Usually slashes on the palms indicate a defensive wound," the surgeon pointed out, still not sure what had transpired. "Did he…..um….attack her?"

"No," Bordon assured. "It was punishment for her actions. He decided to incapacitate her hands for awhile to keep her from causing more trouble. The whole thing was twofold: the colonel was angry that she shot at him, and he obviously thought her absurd enough to perpetrate more audacity."

The surgeon Stanver had seen the dragoon commander's cruelty on more than one occasion. He kept it to himself that he thought Tavington's actions toward the girl as bordering on barbaric. She was just a young girl.

"How old is she?" asked the physician.

Bordon hesitated for a moment, trying to remember his intelligence notes. "Uh…..14….nearly 15, I believe," he stammered.

"Oh, that young?" asked Stanver in disbelief. "Well, for her age, she's already a beauty."

Even in the girl's unconscious state, her skin a bit pale from blood loss and loose tendrils of her sandy brown hair curling wildly about her forehead, cheeks and shoulders, the men were noticing the beautiful young woman.

"That she is," Hugh agreed with a slight smile. "She's among the prettiest of these plantation wenches that I've seen here."

With that, the three men chuckled, Bordon patting the doctor on his back as they jested. The captain turned to leave and as he stepped away, the medic called to him.

"Do you want me to rouse her?" he asked, as he finished wrapping her hand.

Hugh stopped in his place and turned back toward the bed. "No. When she revives, fetch me then."

"Yes sir."

Captain Bordon turned his body back toward the front of the tent and moved swiftly out of it. Once back in his own tent, he settled in at his table and looked over his notes and maps, ready to write a report for the Generals.

/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/

"She's revived, Captain."

"Thank you," Hugh Bordon replied to the private, "I'll be there straight away."

The officer quickly ran his fingers through his unruly cinnamon locks, still wild over his shoulders, then dawned his uniform jacket. He hurried from his tent, buttoning the upper buttons on his waistcoat as he did. The dragoon's second in command crossed the open ground of the camp quickly, soon reaching the medical tent. He entered, looking half like an officer in uniform, and half a man of leisure with his jacket hanging open, hair down, and shirt open at the neck with no stock.

Reaching the cot where Colonel Burwell's daughter lay, she let out a gasp as she looked up at the officer. The girl immediately tried to scoot backwards away from the redcoat leader.

"Oh," she whimpered at the pain in her hands as she tried to use them. Tears welled up in her eyes. She had recognized the man with the broad shoulders towering over her immediately as one of the commanders of the cavalry. Though looking casual, Captain Bordon was in enough of his uniform to startle to girl.

He immediately raised his hands in a halting gesture. "Easy," he said in a low voice. "I'm not here to hurt you."

Betsy looked up at him, distrust on her face and fear in her eyes. Hugh looked at her hands, noticing that one of the bandages had come loose, a tail of the gauzy material fluttering freely.

The young girl watched in silent unease as the dragoon officer seated himself on a stool next to the bed, where the orderly has just been sitting. She kept a suspicious eye on him as he reached for the nearby tray, retrieving a fresh bandage roll off of it.

Hugh put the rolled bandage down on the bed between him and the prisoner. "Here," he requested as he reached for the girl's right wrist. "Let me have a look at that."

It was only then that she noticed that her dressing had come undone. She let the officer take her right wrist, and was unnerved by how gently he held it. The girl recalled the Captain putting the blindfold on her, gripping her arm tightly, then herding her out of her own house. She also remembered how firm he'd held her on the ride away from the farm, how she was sure at times that his arms might crush her ribs while around her thin middle. And now, he held her wrist with such regard and care as he surveyed the dressings.

Bordon, indeed was careful not to hurt the girl as he ministered to her wounds. The old dressing, now soiled with a mixture of blood from the injury and wetness from the moist poultice, was discarded to the side. He lifted the poultice and took a quick glimpse of the prisoner's wound, then replace it carefully. The captain then took the clean dressing and began to wrap it around Miss Burwell's right hand.

Betsy, confused by the dragoon adjutant's contradictory actions, spoke. "Why is an officer doing the duty of an orderly?"

"All of his Majesty's fighting soldiers learn rudimentary field medicine," Bordon answered, not making eye contact with the girl, busy surveying his wrapping of her hand. "One never knows when medics and surgeons may die, and can't depend upon when replacements will arrive."

A moment of silence between captor and captive as all the attention was focused on attending to her wound dressings. Just as Bordon finished, Betsy broke the quiet between them.

"I want to go home," she said in a small, scared voice.

Hugh knew it was natural for a young girl her age to feel that. He wanted to assuage her fears so that she would be cooperative, yet he needed to tell her the truth to begin establishing some sort of trust between them. The aide de camp knew he could get more compliance and intelligence from the youth if he could win her trust.

He spoke as he checked the condition of the dressing on her other hand. Again, not making eye contact and concentrating on the matter at hand, he answered. "I'm afraid you're going to have to settle into camp life for awhile."

"How long?"

"You will remain in our custody for as long as we deem necessary," the captain replied.

She sighed. She just had to have some more specific answers—if he would tell her. "What's to be done with me?"

"That's up to the generals and Colonel Tavington to decide." Bordon, satisfied that the other dressing was secure on the opposite hand, moved the tray with fresh rolled bandages and supplies to another stool at the foot of the bed.

"Decide?" Her question was an echo to his words.

"He has his plans," Bordon answered, his deep voice implying no nonsense.

Miss Burwell knew that the captain was referring to the colonel's plans. She was curious if Tavington had discussed them with Bordon, or if the second in command had no clue what they were. She pressed on with her query.

"And what after that?" Her eyes were deep with the need to know.

Bordon, starting to grow a bit irritated with her questions, wanted nothing more than to stem them query for now. He looked into her eyes, hoping that his own would warn her that she was treading on thin ice with her sort of interrogation.

"You will be kept for as long as you are useful to us." His tone alone silenced the girl for a moment. Betsy watched her captor intently as he turned his body slightly to leaf through a medical book left sitting on a stand at her bedside.

After a minute, the captain looked back to find the rebel colonel's daughter holding her bandaged hands before her face, studying them. As she stared at them, she spoke absently, unaware that the officer had turned his attention back toward her. "I was afraid," she sniffled, fighting tears back, "I was trying to defend my home. I just wanted all of you to leave us be."

"Miss Burwell," he began in a frank and serious voice, "You're quite lucky that your shot missed the colonel. You're even luckier that he didn't have charges brought against you for attempted murder. You would be hanged."

Betsy's eyes rounded as her jaw dropped open. Her immaturity would only let her see her own point of view: that she was defending her homestead and the shot therefore justified. While experiencing his anger at her for her actions, she couldn't see where they would be deemed "attempted murder." After all, she thought, he is a regimental commander; he is probably shot at every day.

Captain Bordon went on, trying to set the girl straight. "The fact that Colonel Tavington has plans for you… has saved your miserable, traitor hide."

The officer took a breath, then sat up straight, his brawny frame rigid, the posture giving him an air of vast superiority. He looked sternly down at the girl, making her want to squirm.

"Colonel Tavington is a hard man," Hugh informed in a tone that sounded more like scolding than imparting. "You have seen and felt one measure of his harshness. Believe me when I say that I've seen him do more severe things and the prisoners fare far worse than you."

Betsy kept quiet, looking up at the dragoon adjutant, dread holding her in its vice grip. Her hands seemed to throb harder with pain at just the mention of Tavington's name.

"Do not antagonize the commander," the captain advised. "You would do well to cooperate with him…with us. I'd hate to see you get hurt again….and in a worse way."

Betsy's face contorted in alarm. "He wouldn't—"

"Do not press him," warned Bordon somberly.

An awkward silence passed between the young lady and the officer. Her mind was a raging torrent. She had only just come to moments ago and already she was trying to assess her own situation. That coupled with her physical pain and need to get away from the dragoons. And while she was wondering what they were going to do to her and knowing she needed to formulate some way to escape, she was being told to be a good girl or she would be spanked.

The swirling waters in her head then turned to confusion as she studied the redcoat officer before her. He had been nearly as cold and rough as Colonel Tavington had been at her farm, ordering her about and herding her off blindfolded. Then he had been calculating, forcing her to read a letter containing sensitive family details aloud, humiliating and shocking the girl.

And now the man was attending to her wounds, careful not to cause her further pain. And advising her, though in a forthright way, how to better deal with the unyielding colonel in the future. The rebel leader's daughter didn't know what to make of Captain Hugh Bordon.

"Why are you being so kind to me?" she asked, breaking the heavy air of quiet between them.

"Unlike my commander, I prefer to keep our prisoners in one piece," he answered. "There are…other methods….to getting one's business done with captives. I have more patience than my superior, who tends to act rashly."

"And when your business with me is done," Betsy asked, trying to be brave, "when I'm no longer of any use to you, what then? Will you free me, or will you ki—"

"I'm sure you will serve our purposes for awhile," Bordon answered dryly. He knew the girl was scared and wanted answers, but he could reveal nothing to her. The captain couldn't tell her of their tentative plans. Truth be told, he wasn't sure where the girl would end up or what might happen to her when they had achieved their goals. Hugh secretly hoped that in the end, the colonel would spare the life of this frightened teenager. The officer had seen that killing rebels in helpless situations only seemed to escalate the ire and resolve of these backwoods colonials.

The girl could tell by the tone of his voice that she would get nothing more from him but vague answers. Yet she had another question left to ask. Since she was ridden away from the plantation blindfolded, she had no idea what, if anything, had happened to her servants or even if her farm was still standing. Miss Burwell had to ask anyway, even if he refused to answer her. She had to make her concern known.

"Captain, what of my farm and servants?"

Part of the dragoons' second in commands' tactics with prisoners was to win their trust. Captives, he found, became more willing to give up information and even help, when trust was built. And once that trust was there, they tended to let their guard down, as well, which was just as useful. Hugh knew that he had to give up a little information here to Miss Burwell to gain her confidence.

"I can assure you that they are fine and reside still at your home," Bordon replied. "The land and crops are intact, the animals unharmed, and the buildings still stand."

The girl looked at him with doubt filled eyes. He had to assuage her.

"While we had to examine the premises thoroughly," he informed, "the plantation and your servants was not what we were interested in."

Betsy now viewed him with query on her face. She wanted to believe him, but he was the enemy. If they weren't interested in the farm, then why had they bothered to make two visits on the place instead of taking her on their first raid, she wondered.

"I know you have heard that we burn buildings in some circumstances," Hugh elaborated. "But it wasn't warranted in this case."

Miss Burwell let out a sigh of relief. Now she had hope of having a home to return to. The young woman watched from her bed as Bordon excused himself and left through the curtains drawn about her. He reappeared seconds later with a cup of steaming liquid.

"Here," he said, carefully placing the teacup in her bandaged hands. He helped her hold it for a moment until he felt confident that she had it steady. "Drink this."

Betsy brought the cup to her face, then stopped, noting an odd smell wafting up in the steam. She looked suspiciously at the officer. "Is it poisoned?"

Bordon rolled his eyes and let out an exasperated breath. We attended to your wounds just to come about and murder you with poison, he queried in thought. Probably her immaturity of age, he assumed. Or maybe it was just plain fear.

"Of course not," he snapped. "It is tea with some Valerian root mixed into it. The doctor thought you might have trouble sleeping tonight."

He watched as the girl sipped carefully from the cup. "Get some sleep. You and I will speak more tomorrow."

With that, he bowed his head respectfully to her, turned quickly, and left, leaving the canvas curtains swaying back and forth around her bed.

Betsy was glad to be left alone; happy for a bit of peace and quiet. She knew that the officers would probably interrogate her tomorrow as they hadn't asked much of her this evening.

The girl was surprised at how fast the Valerian took hold of her system. She felt warm and tired, the pain in her sliced up hands not as prevalent. And as she lay there looking up at the canvas ceiling above her, her drowsy mind wandered.

She remembered a time four years ago, before the war when tensions were escalating. Redcoats came to her house one day, another routine raid. They noticed the pearl and shell necklace that Katy Burwell wore, the favorite one, given to her by Harry. One bloodyback observed that it looked of the Indies islands.

Betsy's father, a former major in the King's army years past, as asked about the necklace. He explained that he'd purchased it in Charles Towne from a market vendor. The British soldiers demanded a receipt. When Harry could not produce one, the redcoat patrol immediately accused him of dealing with pirates. After all, the bauble looked awfully tropical, and the pirates marauded all over the Caribbean, then came up the coast of the colonies, off loading their illegal and stolen goods all over the seaboard. Much of that same contraband ended up on the streets of Charles Towne.

The ailing girl recollected her dear mother Katy bravely trying to hold back tears, comforting her own crying daughter as the soldiers dragged Harry from them house. Her brother Stephen, nearly 14 and young and strong, had to be held back by both Mr. Waldron and Mr. Hantz as the boy was raging to charge the redcoats and free his father.

Harry Burwell disappeared, being jailed for three days. He was never pardoned, but instead let go as the magistrate decided that one former British officer with a suspicious necklace and no known dealings with pirates previously with other large problems brewing wasn't worth the time. Betsy's father returned home with even more of a reason to join with his friends and band against England. His family and servants had a fervor as passionate as his due to raids on their friends and neighbors, and this latest action drove the feelings deeper.

The episode put a fear of these British soldiers into Miss Burwell. She could never forget the image of her father clapped in irons and hauled away to jail. And now she was in their custody, her well meaning defense of her home punished by the commander. The redcoat surgeon had mended her wounds, and the redcoat cavalry's second in command had tried to mend her soul with some kindness.

Betsy drifted off to sleep thinking that she could never trust the redcoats.

/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/

The next morning, Betsy Burwell winced and groaned as the poultices were removed from her hands, then did her best to fight back tears as the doctor put the plaster on her palms, bringing the edges of her wounds nearly closed. She sat in her bed studying the ugly wounds, wondering about the scars the injury would leave. At least the remnants of the lacerations wouldn't be too noticeable.

However, the longer she stared at the wounds, the more her anger rose. She clinched her jaw hard, thinking for once that her father was right in fighting these men. The British had done this to her, as well as caused trouble for her family and friends and neighbors. The more she thought about things, the more irate she became. The girl soon worked herself into a frenzy, determined that she wouldn't cooperate with them, no matter what the price. She hated them.

The young woman was so absorbed in her thoughts of loathing and contempt of her captors that she didn't notice one of them now sitting before her. When she heard the captain clear his throat, she looked up at him with daggers in her eyes. She pulled her arms in close to her body then put her head down, not wanting to look at the man.

"Good morning, Miss Burwell," Hugh Bordon said as he seated himself in the chair by her bed. "I trust you slept well."

"Yes," she answered in a short voice.

He sighed inwardly at her terse reply. With his interrogations of prisoners, he had become a good judge of voice inflections and body language. Bordon wondered what, if anything, had happened in the hours since he'd last visited her. She had calmed and become accepting at that time, and now she was closed off and defensive. The officer hoped that she wouldn't give him any trouble this morning during his questioning, but he could sense her stubbornness.

"Did you have breakfast?" Hugh asked, keeping the conversation light in hopes of coaxing her out of her defenses.

"I wasn't hungry," the girl replied, again in a quiet but barbed tone.

He could see that the polite conversation would get him nowhere this morning, so the officer decided to get right to the point. Bordon took a deep breath and let it out, keeping his composure even, as usual.

"Very well, then," the captain commented flatly. "I must ask you some questions, Miss Burwell."

First with a surprised expression, then with a hard stare, the girl locked eyes with her captor. She let out a frustrated sigh, clearly indicating her unhappiness with his request. Betsy was upset; it wasn't enough that they'd raided her homestead, hurt her physically, and kidnapped her. Now she supposed that they wanted her to give up every bit of rebel info she possessed, then accuse all she knew of treachery against the King.

For the moment, she made up her mind that she would not cooperate. "Good, Lord," she swore, "Am I to have not a moment's peace?"

He raised his chin and looked down at her sternly, doing his best to hold back the indignant tone that wanted to take over his voice and demeanor. "Miss Burwell, you were given a whole night's reprieve."

"How could I rest soundly as a captive?"

"How you rest is not our concern," he bit back.

An awkward space of silence passed between them, in which he held an intimidating gaze on her. The girl didn't want to answer any interrogations, afraid of incriminating all whom she loved.

"And if I don't answer your questions….," she asked quietly, leaving her own question hanging open.

Bordon was tired of her childish stubbornness and decided to shut the game she was playing down immediately, determined that she would not get away with this foolishness one minute more. "Then I will have to tell Colonel Tavington that you have a case of lockjaw," he countered, "in which case the commander will come in here and strike you across the face to loosen your tongue."

Betsy's eyes rounded as her jaw dropped in astonishment. "He wouldn't dare!"

"Of course he would. I've seen him do worse. And _you've_ experienced it," Hugh retorted. "He is a man of little patience."

Miss Burwell looked down at her hands, the plaster barely dry on them now. She knew she had no choice, and her face clearly showed the fear.

Captain Bordon could tell by her sudden distress that he had her. She was trapped and he would obtain some intelligence, he was sure.

"Captain," she began in earnest, "all I was doing was running the farm for father, a responsibility I was saddled with by no choice of mine. That leaves me no time to be any kind of operative for the colonials. I'm sure I don't have any information that you need."

"I will be the judge of that," he answered.

The girl stalled again. "What if I don't know all the answers," she pleaded, "What if I don't answer the way you want me to?"

"I don't want you to say what you think I want to hear," he countered. "I just want you to answer truthfully."

She shook her head silently, gesturing loosely that she still didn't want to answer, even as scared as she was.

"Miss Burwell, please don't make me have to tell the colonel that you won't cooperate," he requested, in a tone implying that he was reluctant to get her into trouble, as if seeking her confidence. That was another one of his tactics: lure the captive in and make them think that it would be painful or a disgrace for him to have to reveal to his commander that he'd failed in his duty. Nearly every time the prisoner took the bait, feeling sorry for the second in command, obligated to help keep the officer that had extended kindness out of trouble.

The young woman sighed in defeat. "I'll answer," she relented.

"Wise choice," the officer nodded in approval. Hugh reached into the breast pocket inside his jacket and pulled out a small notepad and pencil. He flipped it open and quickly wrote something in it.

"Tell me about your servants," Captain Bordon requested. He looked up at the girl, ready to study her eyes and face for truth or lies when she spoke. Hugh sat quietly, watching her as she hesitated to answer.

After a moment, she finally answered, but not in a fashion conducive to beginning this investigation. "Why would you need to know about them?"

The dragoon second in command let an inaudible sigh out as he rolled his eyes. Then he narrowed them at the girl in warning. "I am the intelligence officer here and thus will ask the questions," he scolded. "I have my reasons for asking what I do; that should be sufficient enough for you to know. Just answer and do not challenge. Understood?"

"Yes sir," she answered timidly.

Hugh could not expose the fact that he needed to assess the closeness of the Burwell servants and slaves to her. He needed to know if any of them could be turned, or how they could be used to advance the British cause. Miss Burwell would either figure this out on her own as he questioned her, or she wouldn't.

"Let's begin with Mrs. Leyanova. She's Russian judging by her name and accent, is she not?"

"She is," Betsy answered. "She hasn't told me much of her time in Russia. Her grandfather was executed by Czar Peter, and her own father was killed as well, by a later czar. She married there."

Betsy stopped abruptly, making Bordon wonder if she was hiding something about the Russian housekeeper. The girl wasn't. Indeed she was feeling guilt at speaking of her servants' personal lives to this officer—this stranger; the enemy.

"Go on," coaxed the cavalry officer.

"The Leyanovas fled Russia with a group and ended up in London," the rebel colonel's daughter replied. "They weren't able to have any children. And he died there. After that, she indentured herself and came to this country. Mr. Hantz was in that same group."

Betsy went on. "Her indenture was owned by my mother's parents and given in turn to my own parents on their wedding day to help with the household and take care of us..the future children. She worked her term and was kept on by my family. She is a paid servant now."

"How long have you known her?" the captain queried.

"She and Mr. Hantz both have been here 20 years."

"You've known them your whole life," he said, confirming her answer.

"Yes. Mr. Hantz is from Germany and was indentured. Papa now pays him as a farmhand."

"I see," Hugh nodded. He was most interested in knowing about Jake Waldron, who was overly protective of the girl, enough so that it nearly cost him his life. "Tell me about Mr. Waldron."

Betsy looked down, hesitating again. She didn't want to answer anything about her father's most trusted friend and servant. The girl sighed then continued. "Mr. Waldron's father was a good friend of Grandpa Burwell. He left our area and moved to Charlotte, where he was an accountant."

"When Mr. Waldron's mother died and his father became ill," she went on, "he left the city and came back to the farm to take care of it and his father. He was in need of an income while doing that, so papa offered him the job as overseer. When his father died, he stayed on with us instead of going back to the city."

Betsy felt badly, telling all she knew of these three most trusted employees. She knew that if she didn't , she would be hurt again. The girl also had the feeling that this Captain Bordon was a good enough officer to find out the information elsewhere if she wouldn't reveal it. At least she had some control, or at least the feeling of it, with her being the one to tell it to him and to choose how and what she said.

Bordon scrawled quick notes as the girl continued on providing information about the rest of her servants and slaves. He realized that the young woman didn't know as much as he had hoped she would of them, and he'd have to get back to her plantation eventually to interrogate them all as well. That might fill in the holes that would hopefully allow him to assess the alliances later.

"The large house south of yours on your property," asked the officer.

"Grandma and Grandpa Burwell built it and lived there," she stated. "Father was raised there. Grandpa gave papa some land when he married mama. They then built the house we live in now."

There was silence again as Captain Bordon made some more notes. Betsy watched him as he did. It was a worrisome quiet, leaving her wondering again: wondering what they wanted of her.

When she could take the heavy silence in the tent no longer, she spoke urgently. "If it's ransom you want, my family will pay it!" she blurted out.

The second in command of the dragoons calmly flipped to the next blank page of his notebook, then looked at the girl again. "Yes, Miss Burwell. Your family's wealth and position are well known." He said this dismissively, almost as if that fact wasn't important to him or the British.

Of course not, Betsy reminded herself inwardly. The King's army was rich. They'd have no need of ransom money for her.

"I heard you and the colonel talking earlier in the tent," she divulged, "and how you congratulated yourselves on snaring two officers instead of one for me."

The girl was sharp, Bordon thought to himself. He'd had no idea she'd heard anything of what he and his commander had joked of in passing in this very tent just an hour ago. They had kept their voices low. He made a mental note to make sure she was securely out of earshot the next time he and his superior should speak of her.

"George Rogers Clark will not give himself up for a girl he hardly knows," she informed.

"Ah yes….your fiancé…the elusive major—"

"He's not my fiancé!" she snapped.

"That's not what your father's letter indicated," he challenged.

"Yes," she acquiesced. "I was stunned."

He overlooked her remark and went on with his interrogation. "How long have you been engaged to him?"

"I'm not!" Betsy shot back, frustrated that he didn't believe her.

"You're lying," he said flatly.

"No I'm not," she answered emphatically, feeling it important to keep Major Clark out of her troubling situation. "Papa's letter is the first I've heard of it."

"Do you really expect me to believe that," Hugh asked.

"I only met him last summer, a few times in Charles Towne," she cried. "I don't know him that well. I wouldn't marry a man I haven't courted, and especially one I didn't know well or love."

"I believe it is up to your father who you marry," the officer pointed out, taking a little satisfaction in trumping her, as if a girl that young from a society family could choose freely her own future spouse.

"He has obviously promised you to Clark," the dragoon observed, "and I don't believe for one moment that you had no knowledge of your own betrothal."

Betsy sat, quietly astonished, in her own defeat. She did not bother to make a rebuttal, for she knew he was steadfast and she could not sway him to believe her.

The young woman watched the officer closely again as he looked over his notes, then flipped the book closed. She hoped he was done questioning her. Still, she couldn't help but wonder why he hadn't asked her of her father and brother. She dismissed it quickly though, glad she didn't have to chance saying anything to incriminate them. Betsy assumed that since they were both military men, that Bordon had probably learned what information he needed to know of them from his own spies within the rebel ranks.

Hugh Bordon rose from his seat and gave a slight nod of thanks to the girl for her cooperation. He bid a quick farewell and turned to go.

Curiosity had gotten the best of the girl though, and she could stand it no longer. Before the man had taken even two steps from her, she spoke up.

"My father won't trade himself for me."

The captain spun on his heel and looked back curiously at the ailing girl, now reclining comfortably on the hospital cot. Her quiet comment had captured his attention, making him interested in hearing a bit more.

"You're his child," he said with an air of both feigned innocence and ignorance, baiting the girl up to tell him more. Surely she wouldn't recognize this quick game he was engaging her in.

"That doesn't matter," she said forlornly, looking down and disappointed. "Surely you have spies in his camp that have told you of his ways and his feelings."

"Of course," Bordon bluffed. He had heard things from his contacts, but not on such an intimate level. Most of it was just military business. The captain knew he could glean something of the colonel in hearing insight into his character.

"Then you must have heard how papa speaks of sacrifices that everyone must make for the cause," Betsy said, not realizing that she was probably exposing too much. She innocently felt that she was dissuading the redcoats from even bothering wasting their time with her father.

"My mother made them," she scoffed, rolling her eyes, which were getting misty. "And now... I'm just another one of his sacrifices."

Well, it's not much, he thought to himself, hoping she would have revealed more, but it is a start. "Miss Burwell," he began, "please make yourself comfortable in camp for the time being and don't try anything foolish. We decide your fate and will use you accordingly."

The chilling comment from Captain Bordon, an officer that had been showing some compassion, left the girl cold and distrusting again. She watched him disappear from the medical tent, leaving her there alone to ponder her immediate destiny at the hand of the lobsters.

#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#

**Lobster:** slang rebel term for Redcoats

**Vedettes:** mounted lookouts stationed in advance of a line of pickets (look out or guard line on foot).

**Drawers:** Some men did wear a rudimentary version of "underwear" at this time in history. They were made of thin linen and pulled up onto the body, or "drawn up and on", thus the nickname "drawers", and held in place with a tied drawstring. They went downward covering the thigh and ended just above or below the knee, fitting loosely, worn under the breeches.

**Plaster:** A waxy, sticky, or gummy substance put on wounds at that time. It took the place of stitches, when they could not or were not chosen to be used, to hold the wound together. It acted as an adhesive. Sometimes the physician used it in lieu of stitches if the wound need to be partially left open to drain, which it wouldn't as well if it were closed with sutures.

**Hartshorn:** from 1685, the use of hart's horns as the chief source of ammonia, a component of smelling salts to revive those who faint.


	9. Chapter 8:    Rejection

**Author's note: Hello fair readers! Hope you all have been well! Thanks again for your patience, I appreciate it. Let me apologize again (now becoming a regular thing) for not updating sooner. As usual, real life is full and hectic. Maybe I can reward your patience with a long chapter tonight...it is very long! I'll try to update sooner but alas, the holidays draw near so I can't promise anything. UGH.**

**Thanks again for reading the story and hope you enjoy this update!**

Chapter 8 Rejection

Benjamin Martin, having just given the last bit of instructions and reminders to his small detachment of militia, tightened the saddle on his horse as his men mounted their steeds. He pulled away from the beast slightly then lifted his foot toward the stirrup. Before he could hoist himself up, he noticed Harry Burwell's aide de camp, Major Zeller, striding purposefully toward him. The adjutant seemed to close the distance across the opening in the rebel camp in a flash and was upon the group of waiting rebels in an instant.

"Your men can disperse, Colonel," Major Zeller advised tersely. "Your mission is aborted per Colonel Burwell's orders."

A puzzled look crossed Ben's face. "What?"

"The assignment is cancelled," Zeller clarified then quickly moved back toward the command tents.

"Colonel?" Dan Scott questioned, looking down at Martin after having heard the short exchange.

"You men can stand down," Benjamin offered. "Relax here for a few minutes while I see what the Hell is going on."

The handful of militia men dismounted as they watched their commander stalk toward Colonel Burwell's tent. Martin was irritated and it showed. The man had conspired with his friend Harry to gather Betsy Burwell from the colonel's plantation with the help of a militia detachment. Ben had made urgent arrangements via runners and messengers with his brother to give the girl safe haven for the remainder of the war.

Ben's older brother, Zimry Martin, and his family had agreed to protect Miss Burwell. The elder brother agreed that his cabin and farm were well hidden and out of the hotbed of war activity. His homestead, on the edge of the frontier, was nestled in the mountains of North Carolina just mere feet from the Tennessee border. She would be safe and out of sight there.

Now Benjamin, who had gone to the trouble of arranging the safe house and assembling the best of his men to help spirit the girl away in the middle of a countryside seemingly more infested with Redcoats by the day, had to order his men to ease after readying them. His breathing became heavier with his anger and confusion over the surprising order as he stomped across the camp. He wasn't ready to give the mission up, feeling confident from the beginning that they would succeed in getting the young woman to safety.

Martin's ire had crested as he arrived at Burwell's tent. He stopped just outside of it and took a deep breath, calming himself. Ben didn't want to lash out at Harry. After all, the man had kept his promise made to Martin over a year ago in Charles Towne, making Gabriel Martin a messenger to keep him off the battle lines. And since, he'd transferred the young man to Benjamin's militia, allowing the father and son to serve duty together.

The militia leader stepped into the tent. He was met by the sight of Harry's back to him, palms flat on a table, his body hunched over it. Martin walked lightly around to the side and observed for a moment Burwell's head, hung down, a glum look in the colonial commander's face. The colonel seemed not to notice that he was no longer alone.

"Harry, why did you cancel the mission?" he asked. "We were ready. My men are adequate for this and more than capable. This is no time to get cold feet."

His query was met with silence, Burwell still lost in thought.

Ben couldn't fathom why, after all their planning, that Harry had backed out of the scheme to get Betsy Burwell to safety. Maybe he changed his mind, Martin wondered silently, deciding to send her to the family home in Charles Towne. It was a bustling city where she could get lost in plain sight in throngs of people. Or maybe he'd decided to leave her on the farm?

Whatever the case, he obviously was no longer confident with the plans. Ben took this personally, nearly as an insult, jumping to the conclusion that it was a reflection in Burwell's eyes of a perceived inability to carry out the task.

Martin went on coaxing his commander and friend. "She will be more than safe at my brother's farm," he assured. "It's at the edge of the frontier. The lobsters will never find her."

Harry continued staring down blankly at the table top beneath his hands. His non reaction to Benjamin's questions left the militia colonel grabbing at straws, finding himself saying whatever came to mind to sway his friend back into the original plans.

"Hell, Major Clark can call on her, if you permit, on his treks back and forth between here and the Northwest Territory."

Colonel Martin stepped back, regretting what he'd just said, thinking it sounded forward. Why should he make any presumptions about his commander's daughter's marriage, feeling now that the awkward silence made it even less appropriate.

"I'm sorry, Harry," he apologized. "I know with this war that a marriage must be the last thing on your mind."

There was still no answer from Burwell, who could do nothing but heave a forlorn sigh. Ben narrowed his eyes at his brooding friend, frustrated now and anxious for an explanation for the cancelled mission.

Martin spoke again, this time direct and to the point. "Look," he began, "if you don't trust my men, just tell me. I'll go after her alone if it would make you feel better. You did say that you cannot leave her at the farm, and I agree with you that it isn't safe for her there."

"Harry?" Ben said, as he watched Colonel Burwell step back from the table and turn away from him.

"They've got her."

"Sorry?" Ben was lost. "What?"

"It's too late," Harry informed woefully. "The British already have her."

Benjamin sighed, the answer now apparent as to why the mission was aborted. He felt a tinge of sickness in the pit of his stomach, sorry that they hadn't moved more quickly to recover the young woman.

"Christ, they didn't waste any time," Martin remarked in a surprised voice. "How did you find out?"

"A messenger from the network out of Devington," Burwell answered. "Two days ago. Jake and Betsy went into town to pick up supplies. Tavington's legion arrested them there. They took them home where they released Waldron, but took my daughter with them."

"They kidnapped her?" Martin asked.

"I'm sure they would term it as an arrest," Harry said disdainfully. Both men knew that the Redcoats would never admit to a blatant crime such as kidnapping, but rather find an excuse to arrest someone, or take them into custody.

"And they found the farm's true ledger's as well," the colonial commander added.

"There goes one of our supply lines," Benjamin sighed.

"Yes, and implicates me in treason," Burwell lamented.

"Not any more than your wearing that uniform or leading the rebels does," joked Ben, trying to lighten the grim situation.

"Yes," Harry agreed. "I'm a traitor all around. Aiding and abetting the rebels."

"Half the citizens of these colonies are traitors," Ben spat. "Do the British honestly think they can hang us _all_?"

Harry looked distant again. He shook his head and sighed. "I never should have let her stay." The colonel, still looking lost, hung his head and traipsed out of the tent, leaving Ben Martin behind inside it.

Colonel Martin stood alone in the tent another moment, thinking about the kidnapped girl and her worried father. Then his mind shifted to the regret that he knew Harry was feeling, and what he could do to possibly lift some of the guilt Burwell felt about failing to have acted more quickly.

Ben walked out of the tent and looked around the camp. He soon spotted Colonel Burwell near the wood line, staring blankly out into the weeds and brush.

"Did they seize your farm?" asked Ben.

"No," the colonial commander answered. Harry shifted his weight to his other foot and sighed again. "I should have made my family stay in Charles Towne. They'd have been safer in the city."

"There's unrest there, as well," Benjamin Martin pointed out.

Martin's well meaning point didn't seem to derail Burwell's guilt at all. The colonel went on deriding himself, as if he could find some kind of relief in it. "I should have let George Clark marry her right then. When I told him that I thought Betsy was too young, he informed me that his own mother was engaged at thirteen and married at fourteen, which made me think that he wasn't averse to marrying her right away."

"Thirteen is awfully young—"

"She would have been protected as his wife," Harry interrupted Ben's thoughtful challenge. "Hell, if he'd have taken her into the frontier with him, she'd be safer."

"Now you don't know that," Martin strongly objected. "He wouldn't have been able to move as freely and as fast with a young wife in tow. Even if he'd have left her in one of the settlements there, the Indians and British are brashly attacking them. Governor Hamilton pays well for each white, rebel scalp he gets."

Burwell answered with a mute nod of agreement, still seemingly lost in his own guilt. He looked upwards as a bird flew out of a nearby tree, noticing the vivid blue sky.

"Any direct word from the British," Martin asked, breaking the silence. "Do you know where they are keeping her?"

"No," answered Harry. "I fully expect them to contact me soon, though, most likely wanting to make some kind of deal."

"Yes. Do you think they want ransom?" Benjamin crossed his arms in front of his chest, trying to ascertain if his friend might have a plan already formulated in his mind that he was keeping to himself. He knew Harry as sometimes keeping key elements of plans under wraps until the last moment possible, which was part of his sometimes quiet and brooding nature.

"No. The British have money and resources at their disposal."

"Not necessarily," Ben disagreed.

"Asking for ransom is below them," Harry argued. "_We_ do that. They would not want to lower themselves to the level of rebels."

"You're right," the militia commander agreed. Martin looked down at his boots, dusty with the red Carolina dirt. "They probably want to exchange her for one of their officers."

"Yes. Or information," Burwell added.

"We could manufacture some believable intelligence to give them," Ben pointed out, a look of wanting to help Harry out in his eyes. "I'll have one of my men draw up some fake maps and plans."

"Thank you," Harry answered with a nod. He put his hand on Benjamin's shoulder and spoke. "Utmost secret. You never know if the lobsters have an agent planted here."

Colonel Martin nodded, hoping that there wasn't a British spy nearby, but knowing there had to be one somewhere in the vicinity. Ben started to turn to walk back to the tents, but noticed Harry still standing there, that lost look over him again.

"I shouldn't have left her there," he lamented.

"Harry, your intentions were good. You made arrangements to move her to a safe house—"

"Not quick enough."

"You can't beat yourself up over this," Ben reasoned. "Plans like this take time to be arranged. The British simply got the jump on us."

"If anything happens to her, I'll never forgive myself." Harry shook his head sorrowfully. "My wife is dead. I've only two children left, and she's my only daughter."

Colonel Burwell's eyes were moist, and Martin could tell the man was trying hard to fight back the tears. Ben wanted to alleviate his friend's sorrow, regret, and fears.

"We _will_ get her back," Benjamin assured. "Look, I'll go after her if you want me to. I'll go alone if I have to. You know I could rescue her. I got Gabriel back, didn't I?"

Harry smiled a bit and chuckled. "And you were far outnumbered."

"Some of my best work, I've done alone," Martin reminded. "I've no doubt I could bring her back to you."

Colonel Burwell nodded shakily at the militia leader. The two walked back together in silence, each contemplating the situation at hand.

/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/

Hugh Bordon lay on his cot in his tent, trying to keep from moaning aloud, forcing his groans of rising pleasure to stay low in his throat. The captain's eyes were closed tight as his head sank back into the pillow. His hand, closed tightly around his hardened manhood, had worked slowly on it at first as he fantasized about a whore he'd been with recently in a nearby town. A moment ago, he'd felt the familiar warmth of an imminent orgasm rising in his pelvis and loins, and now as his fist slid quickly up and down his cock, the feeling was moving rapidly through his body.

"Oh….oh….," he gasped and grunted low as he came, the slick fluid of his pleasure shooting out onto his hand and his belly.

The officer opened his eyes as he caught his breath. He was glad to relieve his manly urge, though he cursed Colonel Tavington for having them in this lonely camp in the middle of nowhere, with no followers or doxies around to take care of any of the soldiers' needs. And such was the life of military duty, the men sometimes finding masturbation as the only immediate way to satisfy the lust and lack of women.

After a minute, the captain propped himself up on his elbows and listened for noise outside the tent, hoping that none of his neighbors, or the picket on duty, had heard him satisfying himself.

He lay there completely naked on top of the covers, listening for movement outside the canvas around him. The officer often slept naked when fortunate enough to have a tent to himself; it was the only comfortable way to sleep in the oppressive Carolina heat and humidity.

Hearing only the quiet of the camp and muted snores of men coming from nearby tents, he reluctantly pulled his body up off his cot. As he stood up, he spied his breeches and gun nearby, always in arm's length of his bed. He took a few steps across the tent to the other side, where the porcelain basin rested on the edge of the small table that the officer used as a makeshift desk.

Captain Bordon poured some cold water from the pitcher into the bowl and dipped a linen into it. He wiped the semen off his hand, belly, and then the tip of his softened penis. The officer swirled the soiled rag in the water, rinsing his manly fluid from it and into the bowl. Hugh then poured a bit of fresh water from the pitcher onto the cloth and ran it over his body, cooling his skin and cleaning the sweat from it.

The dragoon second in command stood quiet and naked for a moment after washing himself. The man closed his eyes and relished the temporary cool he felt as the water quickly evaporated from his body and into the hot night air.

Soon the still silence of the night was broken by a rustling outside of his tent. Bordon opened his eyes and cocked his head, listening to the sound, trying to determine what it was. As he did, he reached for his breeches, quickly and quietly pulling them on, then pulled a white linen shirt over his head.

Hugh found his pistol and padded quietly to the front flap of his tent. Once there, he listened again to the noises outside in the woods. It didn't take him long to discern that it was a person in the weeds. His well trained ears could tell the difference between a human's organized and ordered footsteps and the random, yet cautious ramblings of a fox or deer. He tried to remember who was on picket this evening, and where the soldier was. The officer assumed that the private was walking the guard line on the other side of the camp. He knew it was his duty to investigate.

The captain cocked his pistol as he stepped out of his tent. His mind ran quickly through scenarios of whom could be in the woods, trying to prepare himself for any situation. He immediately dismissed the thought that it was a spy trying to get into camp as the noise was loud enough to attract his attention. Bordon soon settled that it was probably young boys out hunting, possibly lost in the dark from their village. Still, innocent as they may be, they would need to be held so that they couldn't tell the rebels of coming across the dragoon camp.

Captain Bordon crept quietly into the woods in the direction of the noise, as if an animal stalking its prey. His gun held in front of him, he looked about the trees in the dark, letting his eyes become accustomed to the darkness. His head whipped to the right as he heard a snapping twig. In the moonlight, he soon caught sight of a silhouette: a female figure.

The second in command leapt into action, striding silently through the brush. He reached the woman and quickly clapped his hand over her mouth as she struggled. The officer shushed her as he put his gun against her body.

It was Miss Burwell, and she wiggled against the man, fighting to get out of his grasp. She soon became frightened and settled, becoming still as she felt the point of a gun firmly against her ribs.

"Now Miss Burwell," he whispered in an angry voice, "I'm going to let you go, but remember that my pistol is pointed at you. I swear to God above that I will shoot if you run. And if I do, it will wake the other men, and you'll soon have a group of sleepy and angry soldiers surrounding you. Do you understand?"

The girl nodded her head mutely, Bordon's hand still over her mouth. As soon as she felt the captain's grip ease, she jerked away from him. The moonlight gleamed off the metal of the officer's gun aimed at her, sending a shiver through her body. Betsy stood stock still, looking cautiously at her captor, sorry that she'd been caught trying to flee.

"And just what are you doing out here, Miss Burwell?" He knew damned well that she was attempting to escape, but had to ask anyway just to see how she might answer.

"I needed to relieve myself," Betsy answered, obviously embarrassed, looking down at the ground.

"There _is_ a perfectly good chamber pot next to your cot in the infirmary," Bordon snapped sarcastically.

"Miss Burwell, do not insult my intelligence," the captain hissed in a low voice of warning. He continued. "Although I must admit I am a bit puzzled as to how you would find your way home after having been blindfolded half the trip here and unconscious the other half."

"I've lived in South Carolina all my life," she boldly shot back. "I could find my way home."

"You are so sure that we are still in South Carolina?" he asked, trying to confuse the girl. "The area is swarming with British—we control it."

"I think I'd eventually find a rebel," she said quietly, clasping her hands behind her back and tucking her chin down, just as a child caught being naughty would do.

Hugh Bordon did not want this audacious behavior of Colonel Burwell's daughter to become a habit. He didn't want to have to waste time chasing after some silly girl trying to make her behave. After all, there was a war on and he had more important things to have to deal with.

So he decided to toy with her a bit—just enough to scare her into submission.

"I warned you of the colonel's temper," Captain Bordon began in a sly manner. "He will be furious when he is informed of your attempted escape. I don't know if I'll be able to contain his anger and keep him from harming you. As his adjutant, there is only so much I can do." Hugh turned away and began to stroll in the direction of the tents, listening for what the girl would do: run away, or follow him.

The officer smiled to himself when there was no noise. He could tell that the young woman was standing there, probably contemplating what he had just said. Pleased and amused, he smiled as he walked away, glad that he'd lured her into the trap.

Indeed, Betsy Burwell was stunned at his words, thinking hard about them. Her hands throbbed at the memory of Colonel Tavingtons slicing her palms open a couple of days ago. She panicked, thinking that the dragoon commander was going to the Colonel's tent to wake him and turn her in. The young woman put aside her present desire for freedom, wanting not to get hurt again. Maybe staying in one piece for now should be the goal; she could come up with a better plan to run later. And besides that, he knew where she lived, and if she ran to her farm, he could come back there and harm her again. The girl ran after Bordon and grabbed his arm, stopping him.

"Please don't tell Colonel Tavington," she beg, clearly worried.

"I don't know," Bordon commented, feigning an unsure voice. "Your defiance _has_ caused us trouble."

"I beg you, Captain," the girl pleaded plaintively.

Bordon sighed in faked frustration, wanting to drive the point home to the girl that she was pushing the limits.

"Very well, but you're going to have to buy my silence," he advised.

"How? With what?"

"You're resourceful," the captain commented. "I'm sure you'll think of something."

Miss Burwell stood there, mute and panicked. The look of question on her face told Hugh that she was so surprised that he'd relented not to expose her to the colonel that she couldn't speak or even think straight.

"What is saving your miserable Yankee hide worth to you?"

Betsy was quiet another moment as she ruminated over what to do. The first thing that came to her was the memory of risqué talk amongst servants and town girls that a woman could get into a man's bed to obtain favors. But I can't let him take me, she thought. I'm a virgin and would like to remain that way for my husband, which figures to be George Clark. Would Major Clark still want me as a wife if he couldn't deflower me?

Suppose I _was_ to get into Captain Bordon's bed, she asked herself. I don't even know what to do once in his bed. I'll have to think of something else to entice him. But what?

The girl thought for another minute, looking at her captor as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, crossing his arms in front of him. At least he was waiting patiently.

Then, another option hit Betsy suddenly. She remembered amidst all the panic, that the Captain was also an intelligence officer for the British. He would probably like some piece of information that she could give him. But if she did, how many rebels or even innocent colonists would it end up hurting? She would betray her own people.

Yet, if I don't say or do something, the colonel will hurt me again, she argued with herself. Probably worse this time, the girl supposed. Either way,_ someone_ is going to get hurt. Betsy's hands throbbed again, making her look down at the bandages on them. She took this as her answer: that it was better for her not to get hurt at this time; better for her to make it to her father.

Miss Burwell didn't know much of the local intelligence, and practically none of her father's troops' information since he didn't discuss military business if front of her. Her mind ran in circles for an instant, trying to remember what little tidbits she knew. She closed her eyes as she tried to decide what bit to share—what would do the least amount of damage.

Finally, Betsy spoke up. "I saw something one time," she offered in a low, timid voice, the tone already giving away that she was sorry to have to use information to save her own hide.

Hugh, still standing before her, out of uniform in only his white shirt and breeches and hastily pulled on boots, cocked his head and raised his eyebrows. His arms were still crossed in front of his chest, secretly pleased that she was unwittingly playing his game.

"I'm listening," said the captain.

Betsy began, slowly and nervously. "Um…once when in the wagon, we stopped along the road outside of Abbingdale. The servants in my wago halted to greet some other servants they knew that were working outside this home. It was a large cabin with a red roof, back off the road a bit."

She paused an instant, swallowed, then went on, offering what she saw, stammering as she did. "I looked about while they conversed. I saw a group of men unloading guns from a wagon and putting them in the woodshed behind the house. I noticed that they were coming out of the shed empty handed, so I assume they were hiding weapons."

The girl stayed quiet when she finished, anxious inside. She failed to divulge to Captain Bordon the _whole_ story. She purposely left some parts out because it was 'old' information, probably no good anymore. The incident had taken place as she and her family and servants had traveled back from Charles Towne last summer to the farm. Betsy decided that this was the least volatile piece of information she could remember, and hopefully would endanger no one. But she hoped it would placate the redcoat commander enough to keep his mouth shut.

Hugh Bordon stayed quiet for a moment, letting the young woman believe that he was processing the information she'd given him. He didn't let on that he already knew this, and that it was indeed 'old' intelligence. The captain knew the cabin she was talking about. The British had already checked it out weeks ago and found the woodshed holding only wood. They assumed that the local militia, out of fear of the newly arrived redcoats in that area, had quit using that particular hiding place before the lobsters could check it out.

But this disclosure by the girl wasn't the main thought on Bordon's mind. He was more interested in the unspoken revelation of her weakness: that she was easily willing to trade intelligence to keep from getting physically hurt, with nothing more than a mere believable threat to coax her into it.

He was also glad to know that she did know a bit of local intelligence, although she'd told the British that she didn't. He assumed that due to her youth, that she couldn't know too much of the area information, but she had revealed enough of her character to give him something more to work with to his advantage.

Hugh uncrossed his arms and brought them down to his sides, his stance relaxing a bit, putting Betsy at ease, as he could see. "Alright, I will hold my tongue just this once. But if you try this again, I won't have any other choice but to alert Colonel Tavington."

"Thank you," Betsy cried, clearly relieved.

"I suppose I could give you some incentive to be a model prisoner," Hugh cajoled, ensnaring Miss Burwell securely within his trap.

She look at him, puzzled. Yet she was curious to know.

"There's a good chance that you will be released soon," he fibbed. Bordon now knew of Tavington's plan for the girl, which had been approved by the generals, and her release _could_ be part of it, but it wasn't a certain aspect. To the redcoats, she was a pawn in their game with the rebels.

A smile crossed Betsy's face as her heart soared. Release was all she could think of. She was so dizzily ecstatic with the thought of returning home that she could think of nothing else for the moment. And in her immaturity, she didn't stop to reason that an intelligence officer would probably never divulge something like that to a prisoner. But to her, she was only thinking that she must have served their purpose already, or the British captured someone more important than her and no longer found her useful. Of course, she was just a dead weight to them now, slowing them down, so they had to release her.

She didn't think to question these new details provided by an officer that had been so kind to her of late, showing her mercy. Miss Burwell didn't think he would lie to her about something as important as this.

As Betsy dutifully followed Captain Bordon back to the camp, she spoke. "I give you my word that I won't try to run again." She hoped the officer would be satisfied with her pledge.

"Good girl," the officer commended simply.

/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/

Betsy Burwell's back ached and she could no longer feel her legs. She had been riding for hours on Captain Bordon's horse behind him. The girl was blindfolded, yet could feel the bright sun of the Carolina summer on her face. And now. her wrists were throbbing from being bound, making her bandaged hands, the sliced palms from days ago healing nicely, hurt again.

It had been three days since the night that Captain Bordon had caught Betsy trying to escape. She had been a captive of the dragoons for almost a week. After being in their camp for days, she was abruptly told this morning that she would be traveling with a small group of cavalrymen and told to clean up as best as she could. The girl was given only a few moments to wash up and try to fix her hair when she was blindfolded and escorted to a horse.

The small detachment of dragoons that rode today hadn't said much. Betsy had the feeling they had been instructed not to engage in conversation lest she hear something she shouldn't. The girl straightened in the saddle when words were finally exchanged by the redcoats around her.

"That must be it ahead," she heard Colonel Tavington query.

"Yes it is, sir," Captain Bordon answered.

Miss Burwell assumed they had either come to the end of their journey, or at least a stopping point to where she could get down from Bordon's steed and take a break. She was happy at anticipating a stop, yet full of trepidation for what it might bring. Betsy marveled at how the cavalrymen around her could ride for hours in the saddle and hardly be affected like she was now. Seemed the worst she had heard any of them complain of in her days in the dragoon camp were sore muscles.

The small effort that Betsy had this morning to make herself presentable and clean up amounted to nothing, for her face was dirty with the Carolina red dust of the road kicked up by the horses. She still wore the same dress she had on when kidnapped days earlier, torn now in various places, and still bearing the blood stains on the skirt from her sliced palms. She looked a mess.

Soon a halt was called and Betsy was grateful. Her bound wrists were encircling Captain Bordon's body as she rode behind him on the saddle—not only for her to have a way to hold on, but more for Hugh so that he could assure that she wouldn't jump from the horse and attempt to run again. The girl felt him push her arms up and over his head, and she was glad to bring them back close to her, for they were aching after holding tight to the officer as she was jostled up and down and to and fro on the back of his horse.

Captain Bordon turned back to address the blindfolded captive. Before he could speak, Betsy spoke instead.

"I can't feel my legs," she informed in a tired voice.

"That's to be expected from an inexperienced person riding a horse for so many hours," he assured.

"Miss Burwell, I'm going dismount first," he advised, "then I'll help you down. Once down on the ground, stay still and lean against me for a few moments until you are able to stand on your own."

The young woman nodded and sat quietly as she felt the captain climb down from the horse. In a moment she felt his hands clasp her securely and help her down to the ground, which she could barely feel.

And as Betsy stood leaning on Captain Bordon, waiting to regain her balance, the girl was still blindfolded and curious. She listened hard to what was going on around her, trying to discern what she could.

First, she heard a gate open, hearing the loud creaking of it. Then she heard voices from a distance that sounded like they could have been rebels. But she was most interested in the anxious voices of the officers around her.

"Is that them?" Tavington asked.

"I assume it is," Bordon replied.

"Kidwell," Tavington called, "Go talk to them."

"Yes sir!" Kidwell answered. Betsy heard his booted feet running away from them through the grass.

After a minute, Miss Burwell was ready to move after having the feeling return to her legs. And she was anxious to have the blindfold removed. As she tried to control her restless feeling, she heard boots running back toward them.

"They said they want to see—"

The girl's interest was piqued as the Lieutenant abruptly cut his words off. Then she heard him whispering to the senior officers, but she couldn't discern what he was saying.

Bordon noticed that Miss Burwell was no longer leaning on him, now standing on her own. He instructed Private Brevard, who stood nearby, to unbind the prisoner's wrists, which he set to doing immediately. When he was nearly done, Hugh took the blindfold from her eyes.

"Thank you," Betsy said weakly, glad to be free of her constraints for a moment. She squinted in the bright afternoon sunlight, her eyes adjusting to it. As they did, she looked around her and noticed that as she surmised, she was with a very small detachment of dragoons. The girl looked up to see Private Carey still seated on his brown horse. He held a white flag, which immediately grabbed her attention.

The girl looked the other way and noticed a fort some yards away, and the rebel flags flying above it. The she saw a small group of armed uniformed rebel soldiers standing back near the bastion gate. And a little father out, three officers in fresh and unblemished colonial uniforms standing yards away from the gate. She watched as the one in the middle removed his hat and handed it to the man next to him.

Then for an instant, Betsy thought her knees would give out. And then she screamed.

"Father!" The girl bolted away from the soldiers, but was quickly caught by the extended arm of Private Brevard, keeping her firmly in place.

"No! NO! Let go of me! I want to see my father!", she shouted, trying her best to pull out of the private's grasp.

"Let her go," Bordon commanded. With that, Brevard turned loose of the girl, her forward momentum to get away from him so strong that she fell to the ground.

Miss Burwell immediately picked herself up off the grass more quickly than when she'd fallen. The ecstatic girl continued her dash toward Colonel Burwell.

"Betsy!" Harry shouted when he saw his teenage daughter coming toward him. In an instant he was flooded with emotion. He remembered the despair he felt days ago when he'd heard of her capture and his remorse at not getting her away to safety. Then two days after that, he recollected the joy he felt to receive a formal letter from the British saying that she was alive and well. But that quickly turned to trepidation when he'd read on to find that they were offering her back to him at a deal to be discussed in person. And now, the colonial commander's eyes moistened at the happiness of a reunion with her.

Instantly, the girl was before him, throwing her arms about him, both sobbing as they held each other tightly. "Betsy," he whispered in her ear as he kissed her hair, "forgive me. I'm so happy to have you back!"

"Papa! Don't let go of me," she cried onto his shoulder.

"I won't," he answered. After a moment, he pushed the girl back to look at her, and frowned at her amidst his own gladness to see her. He didn't like what he saw. Her eyes were tired and her face and skin dirty with the dust of the road. Her hair was a mess, probably from the blindfold. But what alarmed him most was the condition of her dress. He loathed seeing the skirt torn, and his eyes widened at the sight of blood stains on it. Then he saw her bandaged hands.

"Did they hurt you?" he asked, still regarding her at arm's length.

Betsy forced a smile through her tears. "I'm healing," she said. She preferred not to go into the ugliness that had transpired between herself and Colonel Tavington is the farm's office; she could tell him later tonight where she could broach the subject in private. The girl wasn't sure how her father would receive what she did. Her mother had worked hard for years instilling manners and gentility into her, and her actions against the Colonel were not exactly those of a cultured, young society girl. Indeed, she thought, they were the actions of a_ desperate_ girl. Certainly Papa will understand when I explain it all to him.

"Have you heard from Stephen?" she asked her father as he held her.

"Yes, I got a letter from him recently," he answered. "He's only fought in one battle. Says he spends the days guarding towns and roads and carrying supplies in between."

Betsy smiled as she laid her head on her father's shoulder. Colonel Burwell once again fought back tears as he kissed his daughter's head. "I never should have left you there after Stephen went away. I had arranged to have you moved to a safe house. I'm so sorry."

"I know, Papa," she sobbed now, burying her eyes in his shoulder.

Missing from the meeting today was Benjamin and Gabriel Martin, Harry's trusted militiamen. When Colonel Burwell had received the letter with an offer of a deal from the British a few days ago, the colonial leader decided against asking the two men to accompany him. He knew that the two Martin men had so much hatred for Tavington and his legion, and that the wounds of Thomas' murder and the destruction of the Martin farm by the cavalry, though no longer fresh, were nonetheless still deep and raw. Burwell wanted a peaceful exchange—not trouble stirred up by revenge.

As Harry looked at his daughter, his hands went to her dirty face, where he wiped away the tears with his thumbs. The girl embraced him again, holding tightly to him. She felt her father's body stiffen, and as she looked up, she saw him looking across the green. Betsy then turned her head to look over her own shoulder. She swallowed hard when she saw the trio of redcoat officers coming their direction.

Miss Burwell let go of her father and stood behind him, holding his hand tightly. Burwell could sense that these men scared her, and from the rumors about the countryside, he could only suppose that Colonel Tavington, 'the butcher', was the one that had hurt his daughter.

The dragoon officers were soon standing before the colonial soldiers. No one was smiling, and the lobsters were a little too close for comfort, Betsy thought, looking just as intimidating as they really were.

Suddenly, Tavington reached out boldly, took hold of Miss Burwell's arm and pulled her out from behind her father, speaking as he did. "No, she's not yours yet. Not until after a deal has been reached."

"Papa," she murmured as she was pulled away from him, her eyes beseeching her father to do something quickly.

"Bordon," Tavington said as he handed the girl over to him. The captain held her elbow firmly, yet careful not to squeeze too tightly and bruise her arm.

"Colonel William Tavington, Green Dragoons, " the tall redcoat officer introduced himself to the trio of colonial officers.

"This is my second in command," William said, gesturing to his right, "Captain Hugh Bordon."

"This is my aide de camp and third officer, Lieutenant Joe Wentworth." The young officer bowed his head slightly as he was introduced.

"Colonel Burwell," Harry replied in response, in a tone of voice implying reluctance. "This is my adjutant, Major Zeller, and to my left here is General Elson Keene." The three colonials didn't seem as easy and confidant as the redcoats were, and their caution showed in their demeanor.

Burwell and General Keene's friendship went back to the war with the French and Indians, in which Harry fought as a young man. Keene had been one of his commanding officers, a man who he trusted implicitly. The colonel was glad to have him there by his side to aid him in negotiations.

"I trust that you are ready to make a deal, colonel," Tavington said, sneering a bit as he knew he held the trump card.

Burwell nodded silently.

"Well then," the dragoon commander began, "since we have the advantage, here is the offer. Surrender yourself to us now, and your daughter will be freed."

It was a hard offer and a difficult decision to make for Harry, but he'd anticipated that they might want this. Burwell had not come unprepared.

"I have an offer you may prefer over that," Colonel Burwell countered cautiously.

Tavington and Bordon had both made up their minds, along with some of the redcoat Generals, that they wanted as many colonial officers in their prisons as possible. Both of the men were not keen on listening to the counter offer, but did so because they were British gentlemen from good society families.

"That is?" Tavington cocked his head to the side, one eye brow arched up as he listened.

"We can give you a ransom," Burwell answered stiffly.

Betsy, still in Bordon's grip, could do nothing but stand by helplessly as the men parlayed. She wanted it to be over with as soon as possible and to go home.

William Tavington's face clouded over, obviously disappointed with the counter, set in his mind that nothing could top having Colonel Burwell in their custody.

He scoffed, his lips drawn tightly together. "The last thing we need is dirty rebel money," he snorted derisively. "Bordon and I both come from elite British families. We grew up in privilege and maintain our wealth today. As well, His Majesty's army is the richest on Earth. It's not in need of your ransom, either."

"I can't just leave my men," Harry argued.

"Perhaps you'd consider giving your plantation," offered William, trying to keep his temper in check. "You could deed it over to the British."

"Never," Burwell answered. He needed it and its bounty for his own troops.

"We have the authority to seize it," Captain Bordon spoke up.

"Well then that makes King George a thief as well as a tyrant," Harry spat.

Even though the group had only been in each other's presence a matter of mere minutes, Tavington's patience had run its course. He learned that other than himself, that Burwell had nothing of value to give for his daughter. The dragoon leader looked back at Private Brevard and Private Higgins, motioning to them to join the group. The two young soldiers hurried to their leader.

"Very well. You had your chance," Colonel Tavington proclaimed in a clipped voice. "Seize her." With that, Higgins and Brevard roughly grabbed Betsy from Bordon, making her whimper.

The girl fought the two privates immediately, crazily twisting her body, trying to get away from them.

"Gentlemen," Tavington said, looking at Bordon, then Wentworth. The trio of redcoat officers then turned their backs on the colonials and walked back toward their horses. Betsy was being led that direction as well. Her head kept turning back, trying to contort her body to go back the other direction, as the girl screamed and cried for her father.

Betsy slipped and fell to the ground, pulling the two dragoons down a bit with her. When she felt their grips slack a bit as they moved to pull her back to her feet, she was able to break away. The girl ran as fast as she could back to her father with the two privates in hot pursuit. The commotion made Tavington, Bordon, and Wentworth stop in their tracks and turn back to watch the scene.

The girl flew back into Harry's awaiting arms, and she held onto her father with the tightest grip he could ever remember feeling from one of his children.

"Father, no!" she cried in his ear. "Please don't make me go back to them! They will hurt me! I'm afraid, papa!"

"Betsy, they are not going to accept anything from us short of myself," he murmured in her ear, apologetically. "I can't leave my men. The colonials need their officers."

"Please father," she sobbed. "I beg you! I want to be with you!"

"Darling, we all have to make sacrifices," he whispered as he could see the British closing in on their little group again.

"Papa PLEASE!," she wept. "Give them one of their officers back! Give them some information! Anything! Just please don't make me stay with them. Please!"

Harry's heart was breaking inside. He could not leave his duty. And he did not have the authority to make a deal to exchange a captive British officer. The man had to say something to comfort his daughter.

"Look, they won't hurt you," he soothed in her ear. "You are the only key they have to me. If anything happens to you, they will have no leverage with me. They'll keep you alive to get to me."

"Father!"

"Be brave, Betsy," he coaxed.

Soon the redcoat privates had Betsy again, pulling her roughly away from her father.

"Papa!" she screamed as they dragged her back. "No! PAPA! No! Let me go!" The girl fought the two strong dragoons as hard as she could.

Higgins and Brevard stayed near the officers, holding her there as their commander looked as though he wasn't finished after all.

Indeed the dragoon commander wasn't finished. Tavington, upset that they'd made this trip for nothing, decided that he would do what he could for _some_ kind of deal. He would goad the colonial leader into an offer.

"You should say your farewell to your daughter now," he taunted. "This will be the last time you will see her."

Burwell, feeling confident that they needed her as a bargaining chip knew this was not the case. They wouldn't dare kill her. But before he could speak, Tavington went on with his threats.

"Maybe….. if you are lucky enough to meet her again, she won't be the same as she is now," he commented. "She just might come home to you a woman of experience. Her virtue is quite a prize. Perhaps I'll let each of my officers have a turn with her. She will probably get her bellyful and come home with a dragoon bastard. She will have been had by so many redcoats that she won't be able to name a father—"

Burwell was seething now and it was noticeable. "You wouldn't dare!" Burwell challenged.

"Don't underestimate my resolve, Colonel," Tavington taunted. William walked up to Harry, a bit taller than colonial leader. He looked down at the man and spoke in a low voice, a smirk on his face as he did.

"Doing one's duty is such an ugly business," the dragoon said, then turned his head and slowly, lewdly, looked lustfully at Betsy, exuding a noticeable carnality as he did. "But just occasionally, it can be a real pleasure."

With that, Burwell charged at Tavington, but was held back by his quick thinking officers, Zeller and Keene.

"DON'T YOU TOUCH HER!" Colonel Burwell screamed in fury.

"Don't Harry," urged Zeller and Keene. "They came in under a white flag. You can't!" The two officers struggled to keep the enraged father in their grips.

"Oh let him go," Tavington cajoled. "I welcome the fight."

"Don't you hurt her!" Burwell screamed.

"To horse, men," Tavington ordered with a sinister laugh.

He looked back to see the trio of colonials herding Burwell back toward the fort. Harry called to his daughter over his shoulder. "Be brave, Betsy! I love you!"

"Father! Help me! ," she shouted tearfully, the privates still holding her in their iron grasps. "Please don't leave me! Come back, Papa!"

When Betsy saw that her father continued to walk away, her knees gave out and she collapsed onto the ground in a heap of tears.

"Father! No! Please!" she called after him tearfully. The girl was sobbing so hard that she had not realized that the two cavalry privates had let go of her. But they stood over her, guarding her as she sobbed uncontrollably.

And yards away, Colonel Harry Burwell, with his back to his daughter, after being told not to look back, was overcome with his own breaking heart. The usually hardened and quiet officer wept openly now, doubting his decision to leave her with the British, hoping his gamble would lead to them being reunited again someday. He knew that she didn't understand why he had to do what he did; that he couldn't jeopardize the rebel mission even at the expense of a family member. And when he was finally ushered through the fort's gate, he collapsed against the thing after it closed, sobbing into his folded arms as he leaned against the wall, not caring who saw him.

Bordon, also upset, feeling that this whole trip and time was wasted, looked at the distraught figure of Miss Burwell on the ground as she cried pitifully. He sighed and closed his eyes, wondering how things had gone so wrong in just a matter of moments. And though he was a hardened officer, he always felt for the younger prisoners—the children that they had to use as bait and lure, and how they were indeed just innocent victims caught in the middle. He frowned, feeling pity for Miss Burwell, knowing that the young girl just wanted to be safe. The dragoon second in command could only assume that she wept, too, because she was thinking that her father no longer loved her.

"Help her up," he instructed Higgins and Brevard. "Get her to the horse. Gently now."

/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/

The dragoons arrived back in their main camp late that same evening. Betsy, who hadn't spoken a word and had tried hard to muffle her sobs on the trip home, refused dinner and went straight to her tent.

Despite being on opposite sides, Hugh Bordon felt for the girl, seeing how hurt she was when her father had refused to deal with the dragoons. He knew she wouldn't be able to sleep this evening and frankly, didn't feel like chasing her back to camp if her restlessness made her decide to attempt something foolish again. So before he retired to his quarters, he stopped in the infirmary to check on the girl.

The girl was lost in thought, sitting on her cot as he entered. She stared blankly ahead, not acknowledging his presence. He broke the silence.

"I brought you some cider," the captain said, offering her a beat up pewter coffee mug.

She reached out to take it as she looked up at him with a glare. Couldn't get my father to take me today, so they are poisoning me tonight to get rid of me, she thought.

Bordon sighed and rolled his eyes, knowing that she was wondering if the cider was drugged.

"It has some Valerian root in it," informed Hugh. "I thought you would have some trouble sleeping tonight."

"Thank you," she said weakly, taking the cup from him. She sipped it slowly as he stood there still.

"Miss Burwell, I know this incident has been upsetting for you."

She said nothing as she sipped the fruited drink.

"I know you are thinking—"

"How would you know what I am thinking," she interrupted him, forcing tears back as she looked up at him accusingly.

"It was obvious to all who surrounded you today."

Betsy kept quiet. She closed her eyes and wished he would go away.

"You think that your father doesn't love you by his actions today," Bordon surmised aloud. "Fathers _do_ love their children, as your father loves you, which was obvious. But this is war time, and things are different. People become different and act differently, sometimes even strangely. He had his reasons for doing what he did. All of us have difficult decisions to make during this war."

The girl stayed silent, as Bordon watched her, gauging her actions, wondering about her thoughts. As he did, a question nagged inside him, something that he was curious of.

"Miss, days ago, you told me yourself that your father would not trade himself for you," he began, "that he always speaks of sacrifice. You knew this, and still you were distraught. Your sorrow was more than disappointment over not being given your freedom."

"I had hoped," she said, looking at the captain with moist eyes. "I hoped that this time it might be different. That he wouldn't think about the war. I was the sacrifice."

"I understand," Hugh replied simply. "Well then, I'll take my leave of you so that you may get some sleep. Good night, Miss." The brawny officer turned to leave. But before he could take three steps, the young lady spoke.

"You lied to me," she accused.

The accusation, hitting the tired and frustrated man wrong, spun him around on his heel. He glowered at Betsy.

"And just how did I lie to you?" He was not going to let her statement pass without comment.

"The other night," she answered. "You told me I would be freed."

"No," he replied firmly. "I said that you could be granted your freedom. That was conditional on the decision your father made. If you need to blame someone, then blame him. He chose poorly."

Angry, sad, and disappointed over the whole thing, Betsy fought to keep her composure, not wanting to go into another crying jag before the day ended. She cried enough tears already.

The poor girl wanted to scream inside. She blamed the rebels for revolting against the King and causing war. The girl faulted the redcoats for enforcing England's rule. She was angry with her brother for leaving her alone at the farm. Betsy faulted the dragoons for taking her from her home. And now she had to add her father to the list of blame. She was disappointed at him for not giving in to the British, at her expense.

Miss Burwell longed for the way things were, they way they used to be before the war. She missed her idyllic existence and couldn't make peace with the fact that things would never be the same again. All this broke the young lady's heart.

"What happens to me now?" she asked in a dejected, far away voice. Today, she'd found that the purpose she was to serve for the dragoons, was as an object of trade. With that spoilt, she worried now that she was excess baggage to the fast moving cavalry, instead of something of value to them. She feared that the British now needed to dispose of her quickly, and she was frightened.

"At this point, I don't know," Captain Bordon answered. Hugh turned and left the girl alone in the medical tent, hurrying to his own. The officer was anxious to put this fruitless day behind him and get some sleep.


	10. Chapter 9: Other Plans

**Author's note: Again, I apologize for not updating sooner. The holidays were busy, and Wendy and I both were sick for about three weeks. **

**This chapter is a bit shorter than I like, but I was afraid if I kept it with the next chapter, that that one would run WAY TOO LONG, and you all have been patient enough to read through a couple of long ones already in this story. I am working diligently on the next chapter. Maybe I can get it posted before the holidays are over. Thanks again for reading the story.**

** Here you go. A bit of conversation and set up.**

Chapter 9 Other Plans

The next morning after negotiations had failed with the rebel Colonel Burwell, a small detachment of dragoons rode out of camp just after breakfast. They were riding to Fort Carolina to meet with the generals regarding their thwarted plans. Captain Bordon and Colonel Tavington rode quietly along at the head of the group, both men in a dour mood. Their soldiers behind them were equally as silent, not wanting to incense their commanders more than they already were.

Hugh and William were both stinging still from their inability to obtain an important rebel officer. Both officers were so sure that Harry Burwell would crack at the sight of his young daughter, and fearing what might happen to her at the hand of the British, would willingly trade himself for her return to safer circumstances. When he didn't and wouldn't even counteroffer something else, namely a captured redcoat officer or usable intelligence, the men were stunned and angry. They had pinned their hopes on the deal, certain it would work. And now, they had no rebel leader and were stuck with a young, innocent girl, who was of no more use to them. And this morning, they found themselves hurrying along to the fort to get to their generals before the rumors did. General O'Hara, their direct commander, always wanted to hear bad news as soon as possible, feeling that was the fastest way to put out a fire.

Tavington had lain awake all night, as had Bordon, both men wondering why the deal broke, and if there was a way to salvage it. Was there a way they could further exploit Burwell's daughter to the benefit of the British cause? If not, she would be nothing but excess baggage that they would have to find some way to jettison quickly.

The captain spoke up, breaking the silence. "Do you think Colonel Tarleton is seeing more action up north than we are here," he asked of his commander, hoping to lift the somber mood that surrounded them as they traveled to the fort.

Both men were missing the company of Banastre Tarleton. His quick wit and quips, not to mention his willingness to gamble, kept them and their men in good spirits. Ban's legion, which had been up north in New Jersey and Virginia marauding and making as much a name of fear for themselves as Tavington's regiment was. Recently, some of his men had been transferred even further north, leaving Tarleton's unit down in numbers. His second in command had been working hard to recruit local loyalists into the group. And while the new recruits were in training, Banastre had taken advantage of the unit's downtime to travel south and join his brother dragoons, watching and observing them, hoping to pick up new or different methods and tactics to use with his group. He'd even done some recruiting of Southern loyalists, irritating Hugh Bordon who was trying diligently to enlist the locals into Tavington's legion. He knew that his diplomatic and professional approach to recruitment couldn't match the charm and silver tongue of Colonel Tarleton, who could woo the younger men to the north as he filled their heads with fanciful and romantic notions of cavalry life.

Lieutenant Colonel Tarleton stayed only two days after Miss Burwell's capture, having to leave as he was due back north. He had not known that Betsy had seen him raping one of the girls from town on the day she was kidnapped. Burwell's daughter had wanted badly to turn the colonel in for his actions, but she dared not do so as she was the lone rebel woman amidst a group of hard fighting British dragoons. She assumed that the brotherhood of cavalrymen would close ranks on her and call her a liar. The girl also feared retribution from Tarleton. And though frightened to be a prisoner of the British, Betsy breathed a bit easier when she saw Ban leave.

Hugh surmised that Tarleton, known for riding hard and fast, had already arrived and rejoined his unit by now. Bordon always smiled to himself when he thought of Banastre capturing rebel General Charles Lee outside a tavern in New Jersey just eight months ago. He shook his head in a bit of jealousy when he thought how Tarleton's aggressive methods, daring guile, and a bit of luck smiling down on him, made the diminutive colonel's reputation. And only months after his release from Tavington's regiment to form a second dragoon unit, Tarleton had nabbed such a significant rebel leader. Hugh snickered as he tried to picture General Lee, still in his dressing gown after having been denied the chance to change back into his uniform by Tarleton, freezing in the cold December air as he was ridden off to prison.

"Probably not," answered Tavington dryly. "I'm sure he's assigned the same daily duties as us."

"Then _he_ must be bored stiff with the rigors of raids and routine patrols," Bordon scoffed.

"Not him," Tavington disagreed as he wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his gloved hand. "He always manages to keep the mundane tasks of a soldier exciting, whether it's finding some scared little virgin to deflower or making a contest of how much baggage and supplies can be stolen."

"That behavior won't last long once the generals find out," Bordon dismissed. "You know how they are about fighting and acting in a gentlemanly manner—"

"Hmph," sneered the colonel. "They order us to act as gentlemen because it looks good for them, but they don't care what we do as long as we are the victors, and as long as they don't have to hear or know about the untoward methods of obtaining it. There is bound to be mischief!"

Bordon tried not to smile at his commander's disgust over the generals. He knew that this was a sticking point with the Colonel, his frustration at being called in front of the generals a few times for "conduct unbecoming" he and his men. As long as the victories came rolling in, the generals didn't have to know how the dragoons conducted their business and could better ignore the complaints and rumors.

"What the generals don't know…..," Bordon snickered in a sing song manner, looking at William.

"Or what they choose turn a blind eye to," added Colonel Tavington, both officers laughing in hushed tones. They didn't want to risk the detachment of men riding around them to hear them poking fun at the leaders. One never knew where a snitch was in the ranks.

"It isn't as lively around here without Commander Tarleton," Bordon lamented as he took a drink of cool water from his canteen. It was still early in the morning and the Carolina summer heat was already stifling.

"Yes," agreed William. "When he is around we tend to have more money in our pockets after cards!"

"Bloody Hell! He _is_ a poor card player, isn't he?" Bordon chuckled. "I wonder who convinced him of his 'skill' at it?"

"Probably convinced himself," the colonel answered snidely.

Tavington fanned away some bothersome gnats flitting around his face then sighed. "It's too bad that he had to leave so soon after we acquired our little prize of the Burwell girl."

"Yes," the captain agreed. "He would have enjoyed the little exchange between you and her father yesterday. No doubt he would have loved the chance to inflame things further."

"Yes. I swear that ass would do anything and is not afraid of the repercussions," William commented. "I could see him being bold enough to grab her and run his hand up her leg under her skirts just to get Burwell to charge at us!" Both commanders laughed as they pictured Banastre on the field before Colonel Burwell yesterday.

Tavington then gave the command to move off the road, following the narrow path beside a small brook they had just crossed. Just a few yards off the road they came to a small glade that hid them from view.

"Fifteen minutes rest," Bordon called. He and Tavington dismounted just as private Lawson was coming forward. The young man took the bridles of the leader's horses and led them away.

William and Hugh made their way down to the creek, each kneeling down beside it. They splashed their faces and heads with the cool water, glad for the temporary relief from the hot sun. They stood and as each took a drink from their canteens, they looked about. The detachment of men were busy making good use of the respite, some watering their horses, others splashing themselves with water, and a couple relieving themselves in the bushes nearby.

Bordon took the opportunity away from the men to speak with his leader, as he'd been unable to in camp this morning lest the girl captive hear them, or overhear one of their men speaking.

"Sir," he began discreetly, "what do you propose to do with the girl? We can't very well cart her around with us."

A slight grin crossed Tavington's face as he shook the water from his hands. Then he took a breath and turned to his adjutant.

"What do _you_ think we should do with her?"

The captain tried his hardest to suppress a look of surprise as he hadn't expected his commander to turn the tables on him. He assumed that Tavington already had plans for the Burwell girl.

"Send her to one of the prisons," Hugh answered. "That should bring her father about."

"That is a good suggestion, Bordon," Tavington complimented. "However, I have another idea which we can discuss with the generals here shortly."

/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/

Miss Burwell, seated atop Captain Bordon's horse with her wrists bound and a blindfold about her head, had been quiet during the whole ride. She knew better then to ask any questions. Instead she sat silently, straining desperately to hear familiar sounds, nearly making a game of trying to guess where they were.

Betsy had been roused early from bed this morning, ate in a rush, then was forced to sit at the foot of large tree under guard. As she sat there, she watched the dragoons break camp, tearing down their tents and packing their horses. When the area was bare, she was blindfolded and lifted up to horseback.

Just a couple of days before, Captain Bordon and Colonel Tavington had left camp and been gone most of the day, which wasn't unusual for the commanders. But the girl had suspected that something was up the next day when she saw the desks, chairs, tables, and other supplies, though crude and few as they were, being loaded into the two wagons that had sat parked near the edge of the camp the whole time she'd been there. She couldn't help but link the leaders' day long absence from camp with the orders to pack up and leave just the very next day.

And now they were riding under the hot Carolina summer sun, for what seemed like hours. The men about her had been quiet as usual; everything was always so secretive to her as a prisoner. Sometimes Captain Bordon would inform her of little things, but nothing of importance. And this morning, he nor any of the officers made light of where they were going.

As they rode, Betsy contemplated her fate. She thought she had been in the dragoon camp for two to three weeks; she wasn't sure having lost track of time. The girl's mind wandered in thought. Where were they traveling to? What were they going to do with her? When could she return home? Would she ever see her father again?

Amidst Miss Burwell's whirlwind of worry, she had been grateful. She was thankful that the dragoon commanders had allowed their surgeon to plaster her wounded hands and continue to administer care to her. They were healing. And she was relieved that she hadn't suffered the same fate that the blacksmith's daughter had in the village. Betsy had often found herself recalling the awful sight of that poor girl's rape by Colonel Tarleton. Harry Burwell's daughter counted herself still lucky that none of these redcoats had assaulted her, at least leaving her some kind of dignity.

But now, the careening thoughts in her head, fear colliding with thankfulness was causing Betsy a throbbing headache. That dread, combined with her desperation to discern with her ears and other senses beyond her blindfolded eyes as to where they possibly were in the Carolinas exhausted her. The girl could no longer keep her senses about her and drifted into sleep, slumping back against the muscular chest of her captor Bordon.

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Betsy Burwell roused from her light sleep as she felt the gentle swaying of the captain's horse stop. The officer gently pushed her body forward as he dismounted, leaving the girl alone on his steed. As usual, she next felt Bordon's hands strongly gripping her hands and waist, easing her down from the beast. Miss Burwell was always relieved when she felt her feet back on the ground, even though she had to lean on Captain Bordon for a moment as she regained the feeling in her legs.

Thankful that they'd stopped riding, Betsy was anxious to sit down under a tree and relax in the shade after so many hours of traveling in the hot summer sun. She assumed they had probably stopped near a creek to water the horses. Miss Burwell knew that the commanders wouldn't deny her request to go to the water's edge, escorted of course, to wash up a bit. She longed to splash her hot skin with the cold liquid and have a drink of it.

As a prisoner, she'd learned to stay quiet and wait patiently for her blindfold and bonds to be removed. This stop was no different. Miss Burwell breathed a sigh of relief as her wrists were released from the rope that bound them. And then she squinted for a few seconds when the blindfold was taken off as her eyes adjusted to the bright light.

And now, when she could see again in the sunlight, Betsy's mouth dropped open. She turned her body away from Captain Bordon, who still held her elbow tightly. And although she was still restrained, tears of relief came to her eyes when she saw her house.

"Home," she mouthed under her breath, feeling relief and safety wash over her. And as she still stood in the midst of the dragoons, she looked across the lawn to see Mr. Waldron and Mrs. Leyanova standing at the side of the house, staring back at her with confusion on their faces.

Bordon still held Miss Burwell's right bicep tightly in his large hand, and although she wanted to bolt away from the man, she summoned all her patience to wait until he would let her go. She could barely wait to put as much distance as possible between herself and her redcoat captors. And though still restrained, her eyes stayed locked on Mrs. Leyanova and Mr. Waldron, waiting for her just yards ahead. She couldn't wait to embrace them and feel the protection and safety in their presence that she had felt once before.

"Home," she whispered again as she blinked back tears, still gazing longingly at her house, and the two faithful servants standing near it. "I'm free."

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**Historical note: **

**On the night of December 12, 1776, Colonial General Charles Lee and a dozen of his guard inexplicably stopped for the night at White's Tavern in Basking Ridge, New Jersey, some three miles from his main army. On 13 December, Lee spent the morning arguing with officers of the Connecticut Light Horse, and conversing with his staff on possible movements.**

**As he did, a British patrol of two dozen mounted soldiers stalked silently into the area. A twenty-two year old subaltern, Cornet Banastre Tarleton, was given command of a party of six advance guards.**

** At 10am as Lee ate breakfast and wrote letters, Tarleton approached the house and ordered his men to surround it and kill anyone who resisted. Inside the house, Lee and his guard fired from the windows defending themselves. The exchange of gunfire lasted about 8 minutes, according to Tarleton's memoirs. Banastre offered terms for Lee to "surrender himself, he and his attendants should be safe, but if my summons was not complied with immediately, the house should be burnt and every person without exception should be put to the sword." Lee now saw that resistance surely meant death and had to concede. And as the tavern owner, the widow White begged for her building to be spared, Lee gave himself up to capture. Still dressed in his sleeping gown, he requested that he be able to dress himself, which Tarleton denied. **

**Lee returned to service after he was exchanged for British General Richard Prescott.**


	11. Chapter 10:  The Safety Of Home

Chapter 10: The Safety Of Home 

"You may go."

Captain Hugh Bordon let go of the girl, who bolted away from him in an instant. Neither he nor his men tried to stop her from running. Instead they gathered in a circle, conferring about some other matter, not seeming to give a care about Miss Burwell's reunion with her servants.

Indeed Betsy ran as fast as her legs would carry her to the plantation's faithful residents, waiting for her. Mrs. Leyanova and Mr. Waldron caught her as she fell into their embrace. The group was soon joined by Mr. Hantz. Her ordeal was over and she breathed easier to be home now. She finally felt relieved to be safe again in this group embrace with her faithful servants, never wanting them to let go of her.

"It's so good to see you, child," Mrs. Leyanova exclaimed, nearly in tears herself.

"We had no word of you," Mr. Hantz said, Betsy grateful to hear his thick German accent again.

"How are you, missy?" Mr. Waldron asked.

"I'm fine," she said, displaying her bandaged hands. "The slices are healing."

"That bastard didn't hurt you more than that, did he?" Jake Waldron was seething just at the sight of the dragoons, even though they'd returned the colonel's daughter.

The three servants were aghast still at the sight of the girl. She wore the same frock she'd had on the day she was arrested; now it was soiled with blood and dirt, and ripped as well. Her face, dirty and dusty, was in the initial stages of gauntness. Her body looked weak and her hair hung limply about her shoulders and down her back.

Betsy realized that she looked bad. But still she smiled through her tears of joy at the elders that she was so fond of.

"Thank God you're home," they said again.

"I'm happy to be back," said Betsy in a weak voice. "Please….I want a bath."

"I have some water heated for cooking," Mrs. Leyanova said graciously with a smile. "You can have it for your bath. Polly will see to you."

"Polly?" asked Betsy. Their farm had no servants or slaves by that name.

"Oh, she and her brother Andrew Callon are new," Waldron answered. "Her brother is here temporarily helping us out and getting her settled. She is an indenture purchased by your father. They showed up here shortly after you were taken bearing a note from your papa."

Betsy nodded and smiled wearily, just caring at the moment about wanting to clean up. She turned from the three adult servants and walked slowly into the house. Once inside, she paused for a minute to look about at everything, which was the same as she'd left it. The girl sighed, satisfied to be back in her home, where she felt safest. Then she looked up the stairway and stepped onto it. She grinned as she heard the familiar creaking sound of the wood as she stepped, that sound making her feel truly at home, as if the house was welcoming its mistress back.

Mr. Hantz, Mrs. Leyanova, and Waldron watched Miss Burwell as she went into the house. The three smiled at each other, happy that the girl had been returned. Waldron and Hantz were both thinking the same thing, turning to each other as they spoke.

"I don't know what kind of plans Harry had for her upon her return," Jake began, "but we should probably get her away from here, for her own safety."

"Ja, we don't want this to happen a second time," Karl Hantz agreed.

"Let's talk to her first, and together the three of us will come up with a plan," Waldron advised. Hantz nodded in agreement.

As they readied to take their leave of each other, they noticed the commander of the dragoons striding purposefully toward them. Mrs. Leyanova, who had still been standing near the two farm hands as they spoke, scowled at the sight of the redcoat officer approaching.

"Why are _they_ still here?" Mrs. Leyanova asked with irritation.

"I'm surprised they brought her up to the house," spat Hantz sarcastically. "It's more like them to drop her off at the road and make her walk home!"

"They probably want something before they go," Jake Waldron smirked suspiciously. "Probably want some food or liquor to take with them."

William Tavington looked quite regal as he approached the group. He regarded them with disdain since they worked for a rebel commander—a traitor in his eyes. As the colonel neared the group, he lifted his chin, as if a king was looking down upon peasants.

"Waldron, is it?"

The trio of farm employees stopped in their tracks. They watched the redcoat closely, suspicion in their eyes. They knew they would have to tread carefully around this man.

"Yes," Jake answered cautiously.

"Well, Mr. Waldron," Tavington began, "I need to address the entire plantation staff."

"Haven't you done enough already by your actions to sufficiently scare everyone here—"

William quickly unsheathed his sword and pointed it at the farm manager. "You, sir, are in no position to refuse my request. I suggest you gather your staff, farmhands, servants and slaves, and meet me here in ten minutes' time."

Jake Waldron bit his tongue, knowing if he said anymore he'd be run through. He'd already been at the business end of the dragoon commander's rage days before and was nearly executed. The man knew he had to stay alive to help protect his friend Harry's daughter.

Mr. Hantz spoke up, hoping to placate the colonel for the time being, with hopes that he and his men would soon leave. In the meantime while they were still here, he wanted to avoid trouble.

"I'll get them, colonel," Hantz complied in his Bavarian accent.

"That's very wise of you," Tavington said, a slight sneer of victory curling the corners of his lips upwards.

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Lying on her bed on her back, Betsy couldn't stop grinning as she looked up at the ceiling of her bedroom, a sight she'd seen hundreds of times before. The girl was ecstatic to be home and it felt good to be in her house, in her room, on her bed. She rolled over onto her side, curling up slightly as she gazed out the window.

Miss Burwell pushed herself up to sitting when there was a knock on the door. "Come in," she called as she stood up. She pulled her robe closed in front of her.

A young girl, whom Betsy estimated to be just a couple of years younger than her came through the door. The young girl put the two pails of water down next to the tub, then curtsied.

"I'm Polly, miss," she introduced herself.

"I'm Betsy." She watched the new young servant as she began to fill the tub. "Where are you and your brother from?"

"Asheville," answered Polly. "Our father died years ago. Mother died just a few weeks ago. Andrew was away serving and he was obliged to come home and take care of me."

"Where was he posted?" Miss Burwell inquired.

"Northwest territory."

Betsy's face lit up. She suddenly felt giddy. "Did he meet Major George Clark?"

"Yes miss!" That's who he served under," the young girl answered. "Major Clark was good enough to release him from duty to come home and see to me. In fact, we're here because of the major. He wrote to your father and requested him to take us as a favor to him. Commander Clark is going to call my brother back to duty once I'm settled here and protected."

"Well, consider this your home," Betsy answered warmly. She felt good just knowing that George was still alive out on the frontier and that someone had seen him. "You will be protected here."

"Begging your pardon, miss, but it doesn't seem that way," the girl commented apologetically. Polly and Andrew had been informed of the plantation mistress' kidnapping when they arrived. And today, seeing the fierce looking British cavalry served to heighten her uncertainty.

"They kidnapped me to force my father's hand," Betsy informed. "It didn't work. You can see that they freed me!"

"Yes miss," the young servant chuckled as she poured some scented oil into the water. "I've heard that you and Major Clark are betrothed."

Betsy sighed as she rolled her eyes. "Well…my father promised my hand to him…without my consent….and even without my knowing. I found out by accident." Miss Burwell laughed nervously, not wanting to explain the painful details surrounding how she'd found out. She didn't like the memory of having been forced to read her father's intercepted letter aloud in front of her servants and His Majesty's cavalry.

"That's a smart match," Polly opined. "He's from a good family…and quite handsome." The girl looked down at the floor, suddenly blushing at having been so forthright.

"That he is," Betsy agreed, flattered that other women noticed how handsome George Rogers Clark was, and that word was getting about that they would marry someday. "So, I didn't mind so much my father surprising me with an engagement to the major."

The servant girl began to lay out the linens on a chair she pulled up near the bathtub. She pulled a cake of soap from her skirt pocket as her mistress broke the short silence.

"You've met Major Clark?" asked Miss Burwell.

"Oh, yes, miss," she answered. "When Mama and I saw my brother off to leave for duty."

"Well, I'll have to have a conversation with your brother before he leaves so that I might hear some of George's deeds," said Betsy. "I only ever hear of his exploits when I read the gazettes."

"Yes. He's becoming quite famous, he is," the girl agreed. A hard knock on the door interrupted the conversation.

Betsy watched as the girl answered the door. She paid no attention to the muffled voice outside in the hallway. She smiled as she saw Polly nod then shut the door.

Miss Callon turned back to face the young plantation mistress. "Sorry, miss. I've been summoned to a meeting of the servants. Please excuse me."

"That's fine, you're dismissed," Betsy said with a smile. Miss Burwell preferred bathing without the help of a servant. The girl was still shy at her developing body.

Removing her robe, she laid it over her bed. Betsy stepped into the tub and lowered her naked body down into the water. The girl let out a sigh as she felt the warmth of the liquid. Miss Burwell sank backward, resting in the warm water surrounding her body. She closed her eyes as she felt relaxed and secure for the first time in days.

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Betsy pulled her comb freely through her damp wavy hair, glad to have washed it. Now free of its tangles, she ran her fingers through her long, sandy brown hair, tussling the waves, leaving it flowing over her shoulders to dry.

Next she finished buttoning the delicate buttons on the front of her dress, glad to have a clean garment on. The girl was just happy to have bathed again. She crossed the room to the window which looked out on the front lawn, looking out it as she pushed her feet into her shoes.

Miss Burwell's smile soon turned to a frown. The happiness she had felt for the last hour quickly turned into irritation at the sight she saw. The dragoons' horses were still in front of the house, without the men on them.

"They're still here?" she exclaimed in annoyance to herself. She quickly left her room and went to the bedroom across the hall from hers that looked out onto the back of the plantation.

As she walked, she muttered to herself, "I hoped they would be gone by now."

As she peered out the back window, she was startled at furious to see the dragoons on her back lawn setting up their wedge tents and spreading their gear out. Annoyed, the girl let out a heavy sigh. She soon picked up her skirts and headed down the stairs to the first floor.

Stepping out onto the back steps, she spied Colonel Tavington standing on the grass near the plantation's detached ballroom. The girl stomped over to the colonel and crossed her arms in front of her, completely forgetting herself.

"What is the meaning of this, colonel?" she asked, anger peppering her tone and demeanor.

William Tavington said nothing. Instead, he answered her query with an evil, 'how-dare-you-question-me' look that totally disarmed the girl and reminded her of who she was dealing with. Taking a step back from him as she remembered herself, her arms dropped to her sides. She clinched her fists to keep from lashing out again, and winced as her fingernails dug into her own injured palms.

Betsy knew she had overstepped her bounds and needed to remedy her position immediately. She sucked in an inconspicuous breath, trying to keep her composure and sound more calm and diplomatic.

"Colonel Tavington, I realize that it is late in the day now and harder to travel in the dark," she conceded, trying to sound and appear reasonable. "You may spend the night, but you and your men have to be out of here in the morning."

The dragoon commander said nothing to her, still looking down at her with narrowed eyes. She curtsied to him, then added, "No exceptions."

Before she could turn to head back into the house, Tavington grabbed her wrist and stopped her. Without warning, he slapped her hard across the face, making her scream loudly.

William then grabbed her upper arm and began dragging her toward the covered breezeway that connected the house to the detached ballroom. Betsy yelled and screamed, purposely causing as much commotion as she could, trying to get anyone's attention. She knew she was in trouble with the redcoat officer and hoped that someone would come to her aid.

"No! STOP! Colonel, you can't!" she protested loudly. She tried digging her heels into the ground, then tried pulling away from him, all to no avail.

The more she resisted, the harder the colonel yanked on her, jerking her body hard. Miss Burwell whimpered in pain, feeling as if her shoulder might dislocate. Knowing he was going to hurt her again, she kept trying to pull away from his iron grasp on her.

"DON'T! NO! PLEASE!" she pleaded.

Nothing would stop Colonel Tavington. He dragged Miss Burwell purposefully up the steps of the breezeway and into the ballroom, the girl screaming and begging all the way.

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**Author's note: **The Burwell plantation and house have been modeled on the Brattonsville Historical area near Rock Hill, South Carolina. The main house in Brattonsville is where the Charlotte's plantation home was filmed in the movie "The Patriot". You can also see some of the outbuildings to the side of this house in the scene where Ben and Gabriel ride into the rebel camp after the Camden defeat and meet with Colonel Burwell and Major Jean Villeneuve. And, the scene where Tavington's men raid Charlotte's house in the middle of the night is filmed in and out of that house, as are some scenes with Charlotte and Ben and his children, so you can get an idea of the house that Betsy lives in.

It doesn't show it in the movie, but the dining room that Tavington goes into where he checks the candle wicks (and we can all hear that infamous jingling of the spurs on his boots, also where one of the Martin boys is hiding under the table) is truly a detached room at the house in Brattonsville. It is made of brick and attached to the back of the main house (the "Aunt Charlotte" house) by an open, covered breezeway that you step up onto since the first floor of the house and the room are about five feet above ground level. The detached room has a kitchen beneath it with stairs leading down into it(the scene where Charlotte and her nieces/nephews hid from the dragoons as they raided her house). This detached room was used as a formal dining room and ballroom for parties when the Bratton family lived there. The last time I was there to visit (in 2005), it was still decorated as it was for the movie scene, like a dining room, the movie studio having left the props behind for the plantation to use on display. Interestingly, you cannot see this in the movie, but when you enter, to your right is a corner cupboard built into the wall/corner.

Also not shown in the movie, just to the South of the main house (the "Aunt Charlotte" house) is an older brick house built in the early 1800s that the Bratton family used, too. In this story, I am modeling Grandfather Burwell's house on that, stating that that is the house that Harry's father lived in, and now, since Grandfather has passed on, the house is not used and has little furniture on the inside of it.

For some pictures, go to:

Okay, this site doesn't usually allow a "true" web address, so I had to spell out the word "dot" for…well…where you would place a dot/period into the web address, so remember to put the "period" in where the word "dot" is to get you there!

www dot nationalregister dot sc dot gov/york/S10817746003/index dot htm

Also, Wikipedia has some good pictures as well . I think you can see the detached ball/dining room from some of the side views of the Homestead (Aunt Charlotte) house. You can also see the brick house which I use as Grandfather Burwell's house in this story.

Or just put "Historic Brattonsville" into your search engine and it should bring up some pictures of the plantation, and you'll see much more than the movie showed you and what I envision the Burwell plantation to look like.


	12. Chapter 11: Informed And Instructed

Hi all! Thanks again for your kind response-I'm glad you're enjoying the story so far. It is 2:30 in the morning now when I am posting this and have tried to quickly proofread it. Am going to bed now and I'll edit it tomorrow if I find mistakes. Forgive me-hopefully they won't be too glaring!

JScorpio

Chapter 11 Informed And Instructed

"Oh bloody Hell!," Hugh Bordon swore at the sight of his commander slapping Miss Burwell across the face.

The captain and Lieutenant Wentworth had been standing a few yards behind the house conferring with two privates when he noticed the girl striding purposefully out the door toward the colonel. The ever vigilant Bordon kept an eye on the two, knowing that something was wrong—wrong enough to make the girl approach a man that had hurt her hands badly. Hugh had been on edge during the short exchange, dividing his attention. He had a bad feeling the moment he saw the girl in what looked like a challenge type of stance. The officer assumed correctly that trouble was brewing.

Captain Bordon sighed in frustration. The young plantation mistress had been home barely an hour and was already provoking the enemy. And his commander, not a patient man, had already come unglued and was out of control.

He turned to the two young privates and apologized. "Excuse us, gentlemen. Lieutenant."

"Yes, sir," Wentworth answered and started away after his captain.

The two men trotted along quickly toward the breezeway entrance to the ballroom, the girl's screams making Hugh cringe all the way. He knew he needed to get to Tavington and Miss Burwell before the situation could escalate more. As usual, the aide-de-camp needed to calm his commander and preserve the prisoner, which seemed to be happening more and more these days.

As they jogged along the side of the brick building, Hugh turned to his underling. "Get ready to help me restrain him."

"He will call us 'insubordinate'," Wentworth pointed out as they hurried along.

"That may be," acknowledged Bordon, laboring for breath as they ran, "but she won't be any good to us if he breaks her jaw."

The captain knew that when they got there, that he would have something to diffuse. He was determined to keep Miss Burwell in one piece. A myriad of ways and possibilities had been discussed by the dragoon officers and the generals of how having that girl as a prisoner could help the British. Hugh would have to find a way to remind his commander of that before he hurt the girl severely.

As the two officers skimmed the side of the building, the girl's screaming and Colonel Tavington's angry shouts carried out through the open windows. Wentworth and Tavington were able to see the scene through the many windows, monitoring it closely as they neared the breezeway.

Inside the ballroom, Tavington had dragged the girl in there and pushed her against the wall, pinning her squarely to it. "How DARE you question me, little girl!," he shouted, obviously seething at her. "Didn't your parents teach you to respect your elders?"

The officer's jeer made the girl mad, forgetting herself yet again. "You haven't earned my respect!"

She saw it coming yet it was too quick for her to even brace herself. Betsy felt the burning sting of the back of Tavington's hand across her face. He hit her so hard that she felt her head jerk and saw flashes before her eyes for an instant. It took her breath away.

"You are in no position to challenge me, Miss Burwell," he warned through gritted teeth, his face close to hers.

The girl was truly afraid now, sorry she'd approached him, wishing she'd asked Captain Bordon instead. Though the second in command could sometimes be brutal as she recalled, he was generally more reasonable to deal with. Betsy fought back tears, hoping that someone or something would stop this man from hurting her.

Lieutenant Wentworth and Captain Bordon burst through the open door of the dining room. They were met with the familiar sight of their leader hovering over a rebel prisoner in some sort of intimidating circumstance. Yet both officers knew the threat to be all too real.

"Colonel!" Bordon shouted. "Perhaps we should explain the situation to her."

Betsy's body visibly lost its tension as she sighed in relief and sunk back against the wall. She was grateful not to be hit a third time.

Tavington stepped back from the girl and looked at his subalterns with a mixture of surprise and question. His blue eyes showed a quick flash of anger at having been interrupted from 'disciplining' this brash and mouthy captive.

Bordon, knowing that he was bordering on insubordination, used his strength for diplomacy to diffuse the situation and take control. Yet he made suggestions, therefore leaving the colonel some control, or at least the illusion of it. It slaked the captain that the prisoner could live another day for some possible future use and stopped the colonel—at least temporarily—from heightening his already horrific reputation by adding another rebel name to his growing list of victims.

Hugh cautiously approached the two, reaching out to take Betsy's wrist. He took it and led her out away from the colonel and toward the dining table. "Please sit down, Miss Burwell. The colonel would like to apprise you of the situation."

Captain Bordon looked over at the young third officer of the dragoons, still standing in the doorway, relieved that he didn't have to subdue his own commander. "Thank you, Lieutenant. You're dismissed," Hugh said with a nod of his head. Wentworth was all too glad to hurry away lest he be called to pounce on the colonel.

The dragoon adjutant then deftly turned the attention back to his commander, who now seemed to ease a bit. As the girl sat down, she looked cautiously at both men. To her, Tavington seemed oddly satisfied that the situation had calmed down.

Betsy continued to watch both officers closely, ready to run for the door if need be. The Captain took a seat next to her as Tavington stood on the opposite side of the table.

"We aren't going anywhere, Miss Burwell," he informed her in slow, measured words.

The girl was stunned. She thought they were through with her. She figured out that their plan must have been to lure her father to them, which had failed. Betsy felt her mind whirling in circles, wondering why they would still want her. She couldn't seem to slow her mind down enough to think straight.

The feeling, which to her felt as if she'd lost all track of time, had in actuality only been a few seconds. A rustling of paper next to her pulled her from her momentary shock. She looked to her side just in time to see Captain Bordon pulling a piece of paper from his jacket pocket. The girl watched curiously as he handed it to the colonel.

Betsy looked back at Colonel Tavington as he opened the paper handed to him. He leaned over the table, bracing himself with one hand on it.

"His Majesty King George has seen fit to give us use of your _entire _plantation," the colonel announced as he passed the paper to Miss Burwell.

The girl looked at the form in confusion as William spoke. "We've been billeted here."

"For how long?" she asked with alarm and annoyance.

"Indefinitely," answered Tavington with triumph in his voice. "Your staff has been briefed already as to their expectations during our stay here."

Betsy looked to her side at the Captain, hoping he might rescue her home from this takeover. He returned her look with a cold expression.

The colonel, still leaned menacingly over the table, stared at the girl for a moment with his steely eyes. "I'll tell you what is expected of you."

Miss Burwell shivered imperceptibly at the officer's tone. She pressed her lips tightly together, forcing herself to hold her own tongue lest she get into trouble again.

Tavington stood up straight again. He turned and paced a couple of steps with his hands clasped behind his back, then he turned back to address the plantation's mistress.

"Your farm will continue to run as usual," began the dragoon commander, "but this house, the outbuildings, and lands are now for the use of the King's army. You will no longer be supplying the rebels or selling commercially at market. The livestock, supplies, and foodstuffs produced here will now to go supply _our_ army."

Betsy was exasperated and fought hard to stay under control. She felt like he was planning to starve her and her staff out.

"And what of me and my servants?", she asked.

"You and your staff are now in the service of the British military."

"Yes, but what of us? How are we to be sustained?"

"You and your servants will be given enough to survive," answered Tavington. "You will be compensated by the Crown."

"Are we just to be forced out of our rooms?" the girl queried.

"No, Miss Burwell. You will still live here, but you will have to shift things to accommodate me and my men. Your house and your grandfather's will quarter my staff and any visiting officers. The men will live in tents on your grounds. Your buildings will house our supplies and soldiers as well, if need be. Your barns will stable our horses, teamster animals, and wagons. Shelter will also be given by you to any Loyalist refugees."

Betsy clasped her hands tightly together under the table, and shivered again. The colonel was staring hard down at her again with a look silently reminding—warning her—not to question this.

Tavington went on. "You _will_ be a gracious plantation mistress to any visiting British soldiers and officers. You will be expected to be a good hostess at any parties held here."

Betsy was growing more angered by the moment as he listed his 'expectations' for her and her farm. Not only had he moved his men in, but there would be 'visitors' there as well. And the nerve of him to tell her he would have parties here, she thought.

William paced again then stopped, looking down at the girl. He shot her a look of frank seriousness. "You will comply without question with all requests given to you by His Majesty's officers."

Her mouth dropped open in shock. "But…colonel," she stammered in horror, "you can't expect me to…this isn't a bawdy—"

The dragoon commander rolled his eyes at the girl's assumption that she would have to supply the men with sexual favors. "Within reason, Miss Burwell," he clarified. "You won't be expected to accompany the men to their quarters. There _are_ other women willing to take care of that."

She looked down, embarrassed and insulted. How _dare_ he speak of such a subject, she thought, her mind whirling still in disbelief.

William pulled the chair out slightly that was on his side of the table, across from Miss Burwell. He put his foot up on it, leaned forward, and rested his crossed forearms on his knee. The colonel looked at the girl with a sinister and victorious smile.

"Did you _really_ think we would free you, little girl?" scoffed the dragoon.

Betsy began to tremble again, this time visibly. She looked sideways with question in her eyes at Bordon, still seated next to her. His gaze was a bit more sympathetic this time as this was not the way he would approach a child. He was wise enough to understand that the children left at home during this war were usually innocent victims caught in the middle. Hugh also comprehended that men like Tavington were good at exploiting the innocent to suit their purpose, which was to win this war at any cost.

The captain, though feeling bad for Miss Burwell, again said nothing. He knew his commander was enjoying taunting the girl. And though Hugh wouldn't have done this, preferring other methods to coerce or win over the prisoner, sometimes Tavington's jeering and intimidation did draw out the use from some captives.

"You're still a prisoner," Tavington sneered. "A prisoner in your own home; a prisoner of your own life; our prisoner."

Betsy closed her eyes, thinking about what he said. Then she became defiant inside. She thought silently that there was no way they could hold her there. She had friends in the countryside and the village. The girl knew her own home and lands better than these redcoats did. She knew that she could slip away from them. Even if she couldn't get to her father, she would find some safe haven.

The scooting of the chair on the wood floor back under the table by Tavington pulled the girl from her impromptu escape plans. She looked up in time to catch the officer straightening his body back up to its full, tall length.

"You _may_ be given certain liberties if you prove you can be trusted," the dragoon commander informed. "You will be allowed to roam your farm freely within the property's boundary. Of course our sentries will be in place patrolling the border of it."

How can I escape with sentries guarding the place, she asked herself silently. Still, this uncertainty did not deter her fledgling plan. The girl still had the upper hand in knowing every inch of her plantation, and she would find _some_ way to get past the pickets.

Colonel Tavington, though, was a step ahead of his captive. He knew that the audacity of youth and the familiarity of her surroundings were making the girl think boldly. The officer assumed she was probably thinking how easy it would be to flee this place that she knew so well.

"You may even be allowed to go into the village; attend events," William continued, "with an armed escort, of course. If you try to escape or don't comply with our requests, you will be punished."

Betsy's mouth dropped open and her eyes rounded as she looked up at the man. She said nothing, still taking in the colonel's threats.

"You will be confined to the house or your room, or I'll have you punished physically."

The girl was aghast. How dare him, she thought, to think that a young girl could be whipped like a common criminal or disobedient soldier. Then she remembered what he'd said earlier, that the farm was to continue to function as usual.

She finally pulled herself from her own state of temporary shock. "But how am I to run this farm if you confine me to the house?"

"You can't," he answered quickly, cutting her off. "So don't do anything to put yourself in that position."

There was a rap on the doorframe, drawing the attention of the trio in the dining room to the still open door. Lieutenant Wentworth was back, standing just outside in the breezeway.

"Sir, the infantry has just arrived," he announced.

"Thank you, Lieutenant," Tavington replied. "Excuse me, Captain, I must go meet their commander." With that, the colonel walked toward the door as quickly as his adjutant had nodded to him.

In the doorway, the tall dragoon commander stopped and turned back to face Bordon and the plantation's young mistress. "I trust that there will be no more trouble out of you, Miss Burwell."

She looked down at the table top and shook her head slightly, indicating 'no.' The young girl's heart was sinking at the revelation that she was a captive on her own farm, and that the possibility of escape was becoming distant.


	13. Chapter 12: Bordon's Diplomacy

**Thanks for your patience, dear readers.**

** Greetings from Indianapolis, Indiana where the Super Bowl is going on right now as I am posting this. Our city has had a huge case of Super Bowl mania for the last 10 days!**

** Sorry for not posting this chapter sooner. Real life always takes precedence over the fun stuff like writing. Sorry for any errors-I proofed this very quickly. I will try to correct them soon.**

**Hope you enjoy!**

**JScorpio**

Chapter 12: Bordon's Diplomacy

Hugh Bordon stood to leave. He looked down at Betsy Burwell, staring at the table in a stupor of shock. The officer knew from his dealings with young prisoners that this was not easy on her.

"Miss Burwell, you could use some air," he opined, offering his hand to her. "Please let me escort you out onto the lawn."

The girl snapped out of the haze when she heard his deep voice, reminding her that she was still in the presence of the enemy, and that she would be in the company of redcoats for some time to come. Angry again, she jumped from her seat, pushing her chair back roughly and startling the man beside her.

"I don't care to be in the company of _any_ redcoat right now!" she spat, her eyes narrowed at him.

Betsy pushed past him, stomping toward the door.

The officer's mind spun into action. The girl was upset and rightfully so. But even from his few days spent near this woman, he'd quickly ascertained that anger made her bold. And though he'd seen her shake in fear over the last couple of weeks, and just witnessed that fright a moment ago, the man knew she could challenge mindlessly at the drop of a hat. In her mad march to the door, he was afraid she was off to do or say something stupid again.

Thinking he'd do well to stop her before she got into trouble again, he lunged to the door. The athletic officer quickly jumped into the doorway, blocking the girl from leaving.

"Be sensible, miss," he said, looking down at her, his body spread eagled between the door frame. "A walk would do you well, and give you a chance to think."

"No, Captain!" she huffed. "Leave me alone!"

She pushed his arm aside without a fight from him and charged through the door. Hugh sighed, then spun about to see the girl walking down the breezeway steps. He watched her for a moment as she stepped onto the grass.

Good, she's going to take a walk and think. Hopefully she will calm down, he thought, still watching her.

Betsy didn't know what to do or think as she found herself walking. She stopped after only a few steps into the yard. The girl sighed and shook her head, then started off walking again to her right. After another few feet, she stopped again and spun about, now strolling toward the house.

From the breezeway, Hugh was still watching her. He cocked his head at her puzzling movements. Captain Bordon could tell that she was back into her stupor of disbelief. The officer started after her again, knowing he should get her walking the opposite direction of wherever Colonel Tavington was. Jumping down the steps, he quickly sidled up to her.

"Miss Burwell—"

"Leave me alone!" she said , pulling away from him, spinning on her heel to walk the opposite way.

The brawny officer grabbed her arm firmly, stopping her. She glared up at him.

He knew he needed to talk some sense into the audacious youth. The girl was going to have to grow up sometime and learn when to hold her tongue and what battles were worth fighting. And the sooner, the better—for both of them.

"Miss Burwell, you can either take my arm and stroll with me over to the side," he advised, nodding his head the direction he wanted to go, "or I can take your arm and drag you over there—"

"Like your commander dragged me into the ballroom?" she interrupted sarcastically.

She is doing it again, he thought, exasperated with her audacity. Can't she just be demure and graceful, he wondered. It would be easier on both of us.

Bordon eased his grip on her arm. "Well, I hope you won't make me do that," requested Hugh.

His calm tone disarmed her. She took a deep breath, letting it out slowly.

"As you wish, Captain," Betsy relented, looking at the ground in a sort of minor defeat. She raised her eyes an instant later to find the officer's right elbow out to her. The girl slipped her left hand around his arm then let him lead them away.

The two walked in silence for a few yards to the shade of a large tree, where they stopped. They were away from the redcoats that were straggling onto the estate. Betsy watched them as they passed by carrying their equipment. Then she looked past the side of the house and out onto the front green, where more were waiting to disperse and set up their tents, as well.

The girl looked forlorn as she looked at the lobsters setting up their canvas abodes, making her home theirs as well. She had let go of Bordon's arm and now stood wringing her hands, helpless to do anything about the distressing situation. Betsy spoke mindlessly as she continued to gaze at the enemy streaming in around her.

"Moments ago when I was in trouble, I thought for sure one of my servants would come help me," she lamented aloud, as if she was by herself, "instead it was a redcoat. An enemy rescued me from the enemy."

"Your servants are a busy lot," Hugh commented.

"Colonel Tavington had probably scared them enough that they didn't want to…." Her answer to his comment drifted off, lost in her mind; absent on her tongue.

"What happened between you and the colonel?" Captain Bordon asked in concern. "Did you provoke him?"

She took his question as a disguised comment. The girl felt it accusatory. Betsy turned toward him, scowling. "You assume that it is all my fault."

"Well, did you?" the captain pressed.

"No. I finished my bath and saw that you were still here," she explained. "That made me mad. I asked him why you were still here, when you were leaving and that you could not stay longer than tomorrow."

"Hmph. I see," the officer scoffed. "Questioning him was your first mistake, but ordering him was the worse of the two."

"I had no idea of your billet," Miss Burwell defended.

"You're a prisoner. We don't have to disclose anything to you," answered the captain.

"Yes, I know. I'm kept in the dark by you all the time," she accused in a lackluster tone. Her weariness of these men and her whole situation showed plainly through. "You might have told me of this and saved me some hurt and humiliation."

"I wasn't at liberty to tell you," Captain Bordon replied. "I did stop him from hurting you any further."

"Why? He's your commander."

"As I pointed out before, I prefer my prisoners to remain in one piece," the officer answered. He gazed momentarily at the girl when she didn't say anything back to him. He knew that all this was hard for a young woman her age to take in. But still, he had his duty.

"Miss Burwell, did you hear everything the colonel said."

She looked oddly at him. "Of course I heard him," she replied, sounding offended.

"But did you_ listen_ to what he said," Bordon pressed. "Did you _understand_ everything?"

"Yes. I'm to answer all the redcoats' demands," she answered, irritated at his insistence.

Her dismissive attitude bothered him. Hugh knew she had heard but wasn't getting what he silently implied. He didn't think she had read the ominous warning hidden between the lines of Tavington's speech.

"Miss Burwell," began Hugh, "it's not enough to comply with all the demands."

"What else do you want?" she shouted, exasperated with him and all redcoats.

"Do not confront the colonel or anger him," the captain answered, "don't provoke him. Don't question him—"

"This is _MY_ home," she objected.

"Yes. I'm trying to help you survive and remain unhurt during our billet here," he said, "or wherever else your captivity takes you amongst the King's army."

Betsy went silent as she recalled the first conversation she' d ever had with Captain Bordon so many days ago, as he redressed her wounds. He had warned her not to cross the colonel and to cooperate. She had seen him lose his patience in an instant as he had done with her questions to him just moments ago.

The girl heaved a sigh, then spoke. "I'll try not to anger him."

Suddenly a high pitched scream cut through the hot, thick air. Miss Burwell and Captain Bordon both looked toward the house, trying to discern what was happening.

"No! Don't!

Betsy thought it sounded like the shriek of a young girl—someone younger than her. She wondered if it was Polly, the newest of her young servants, shouting.

"Now what!" Hugh exclaimed in frustration, wondering what new problem there was now to deal with.

Miss Burwell lifted her skirts and trotted toward the house with the captain close behind her. As they rounded the corner, the trouble could be seen.

At the outside door coming up from the wine cellar beneath the house, there was a small group of British infantrymen holding bottles of spirits, laughing and passing them about between them. On closer approach, Polly, the twelve year old servant was in the middle of the group, protesting.

"You can't have this! It belongs to the mistress!" she shouted, trying to wrestle the bottles out of the redcoats' hands. One soldier could be seen on the stairs, handing bottles out to the group assembled.

As soon as Betsy saw this, she ran as fast as she could to aid the girl. She was angered that this group had just made themselves at home nearly the moment they entered the plantation.

They haven't even set their tents up and they're already raiding the liquor, raged Betsy's mind. Are they going to take all that we have, she wondered.

She came upon the group in only a few steps. The young woman snatched one of the wine bottles out of an unsuspecting infantryman's hand.

The soldier turned and eyed the new female who had joined the group. In an instant, the others were soon ogling her, as well. The maid in the middle was just a little girl. Miss Burwell, by no means having the shapely body of a mature woman, had a few youthful curves, while Polly was rail thin and straight as a board.

"Well, aren't you a pretty little bird," one of the soldiers smirked.

"Give those back!," shouted Betsy, trying to grab more of the bottles from them men. "This is my father's private store."

"And who do you think you are, missy?"

"The plantation mistress!" she retorted.

Betsy and Polly both began trying to grab the bottles back from the soldiers. Soon the petite little maid was pushed away and landed on the ground. Miss Burwell tried to punch the one that had knocked the girl down.

Hugh Bordon, who had fallen behind, saw the group and the diminutive servant now on the ground. With that, he stomped over to the group, enraged at their behavior.

"See here you men!" he bellowed. He broke through the group, shoving the men aside to get into the middle. "What are you doing?"

"Our commander wanted some spirits," one answered.

"Aye. He sent us to get them," another defended.

"Put the bottles down and leave," Bordon commanded.

"And who are you?" a brave young redcoat asked.

"Captain Bordon. Green Dragoons' second in command."

The men knew that this farm was billeted to the cavalry, and that they were in a sense, the dragoons' guests. The men slowly put the bottles down on the ground.

As they did, Miss Burwell reached down to help her servant back to her feet. Betsy watched the dragoon adjutant as he took command of the trouble.

"This plantation's family is willing to share its liquor," he said, collecting the bottles of wine, holding them against his middle as his arms loaded. Betsy soon reached over and took some from him, helping him to collect and hold the containers.

"However," he continued, "Your leaders will make their requests for spirits to Miss Burwell, the plantation mistress." The captain motioned to her. "Or to Mrs. Leyanova, the house mistress."

Polly soon joined in gathering the bottles, finally freeing the captain's arms. He went on addressing the infantrymen. "And while you are here, you will treat this plantation's women with respect. Is that understood?"

"Yes sir," they nodded. They dispersed quickly, headed toward their commanders to inform them of the arrangement set forth by the dragoon adjutant.

Polly curtsied shyly and quickly to Captain Bordon, recognizing him from the meeting they'd had an hour ago with Colonel Tavington and the other dragoons. She soon disappeared down the steps into the cellar, taking some bottles with her.

Betsy was thankful that the captain had been there to rescue her servant and herself—as well as the plantation's store of liquor—from the busy hands of the raiders. For once, she was relieved to have a redcoat officer nearby. And Captain Bordon was proving himself to not only be diplomatic and smart, but a gentleman, as well.

"Thank you for helping with this," she said in a soft voice. "I was afraid that they meant to clean us out."

"You're welcome."

He bowed his head to her, then turned to walk away. Hugh stopped when he heard the girl call after him.

"Captain," she said as she stepped near him. "Thank you for saving me from the colonel," she said timidly, blushing with embarrassment. "I was angry. I didn't stop to think that my actions would enrage him so. I should have remembered." She brought her palms up, still bandaged from when Tavington had sliced them days ago, to look at them, silently conceding to the captain that her hands should have served as a reminder.

"Miss Burwell," Bordon said, his voice laced with empathy and understanding, "you _will_ survive this occupation if you think and act smartly."

/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/

Betsy yawned as she walked along behind Captain Bordon, following him to the stables where his horse was. She looked about at her plantation, which had transformed into a canvas village in just 24 hours. The girl thought about how yesterday at about this time, after a long ride, her blindfold had been lifted to reveal that she was home again. She sighed as she recalled how happy and relieved she felt to be back. And after just a short hour of a relaxing bath and bliss that she was back at home, it was revealed to her that the redcoats had taken over her farm and had moved in.

Miss Burwell, not wishing anymore British company, had spent the evening in her room, even taking dinner in there. Exhausted after the kidnapping ordeal, she desperately wanted to sleep. Her distress over this new situation kept her awake all night, tossing and turning.

Another issue contributing to her insomnia last evening was the whole plantation staff knowing that she was engaged to George Clark. The humiliation of finding out at the same time as everyone else that her father had pledged her troth to Major Clark stung her still. Indeed the embarrassment of being made by the British to read Harry's intercepted letter aloud in front of all her servants and the dragoons still made her cringe. The girl would have liked to have been informed of her situation in confidence with her father.

To add to it, the servants were treating her as a betrothed girl when she herself had barely the time to digest it. It was a little much to bear at age 15.

The staff were already whispering their congratulations and best wishes to her in just the brief time she had been home. She could do nothing but blush, seeing their discomfort at her dismay and surprise. Mrs. Leyanova, in some half cocked attempt to console the girl through the shock of the rudely announced engagement and the arrival of unwanted enemy houseguests, blurted her words as she helped Betsy ready for bed last evening.

"Someday soon this war will be over," she cajoled, "Then you'll be happily married to Major Clark, nursing his babies at your breasts!"

The well meant thought overwhelmed Miss Burwell, catching her up in a whirlpool of panic, distress, and embarrassment. This damned war had changed her well ordered life. It had taken her father and brother away from home to fight. She felt sure that the stress of it had caused the hard and irregular labor that killed her mother and stillborn sister in childbirth. And it forced the need for her father to forego the gaiety of a grand announcement of a betrothal and lovely society wedding in favor of no announcement and marrying her off quickly to a man she barely knew.

The worst thing that kept her awake was that she had just passed her fifteenth birthday a week ago, while in the dragoon camp. No one noticed or mentioned it, going by with no fanfare, unlike her fourteenth birthday last summer. How different things were then: her mother still alive and ready to give birth to a sibling; no war or enemy in the area; her father and brother still home. Things were so different now and almost too much for the youngster to bear. The sum of everything made her toss and turn all night, until her sheets were a mess.

She arose this morning tired and wishing she could stay in bed, in her room, with the door locked. Betsy felt more like sulking than socializing. Nevertheless she had been roused from the solace of her room and requested to show the dragoons' second in command around the farm. And after a hasty breakfast, she started off to this task.

The officer wanted to familiarize himself with the workings of the plantation and which slaves and servants usually attended to those chores. He also desired to get to know the workers, hoping to win their favor, trust and cooperation. As an intelligence officer, he was always looking about, watching to see who could be turned to the British cause, and who might best be used by them to their full advantage. Most of all, he was always working to wear them down with his diplomacy in hope that they would let their guard down and drop bits of useable information to him.

And now, after a few hours of leading Captain Bordon around, she now followed _him_, bleary eyed and drained from little sleep. The man, after having used up the last of his notepaper jotting notes on his tour of the farm, needed to drop past the stables to retrieve another journal from his saddlebag. He looked back to find the girl trailing him still and called to her.

"I'm sorry to have to interrupt our trek about the farm," he apologized over his shoulder. "I didn't have a chance to get everything unpacked from my saddlebags and brought into the house last night." Indeed, the man had been up late directing the dragoons and militia as to where to place tents that all he wanted to do was find a bed to sleep in. He and Colonel Tavington had taken up residence in the main house—Harry's house. Grandfather Burwell's house, next door and mostly empty, would be reserved for visiting officers.

There hadn't been much shifting for Miss Burwell. She had been allowed to stay in her room. Having a house and farm full of strange men—enemy soldiers—unnerved all the residents. It too, was another reason on the list of things that contributed to Betsy's inability to get any sleep last evening.

Betsy tromped along quietly behind the captain, not engaging in small talk, as if reserving her words and energy for the rest of the afternoon, continuing to show Bordon about. She saw him duck into the stall, which backed up to the hay storage area. She could see bales being tossed out to be taken somewhere. The wall was too high to see who was baling the straw.

Captain Bordon sighed as he rummaged through his saddle bags trying to find another journal. The girl stood idly by, bored, alternately looking at the rafters of the barn, then down at the toes of her shoes. Both were silent aside from an occasional whinny from Tarsis, Hugh's horse, and a questionable stamping of the beast's feet, as if asking why his master wasn't feeding him or saddling up for a ride.

The conversation from the busy men on the other side of the stall seemed to echo thru the barn, even though they were speaking in low voices. Miss Burwell recognized the voice of one of them to be Jonathon, the young stable hand. He was talking in an incredulous voice to someone whose voice Betsy did not know.

"Is the Northwest Territory really as vast as they say it is?" the boy asked as a pitchfork could be heard piercing one of the bales. Betsy now understood that the other young man was Private Callon, the boy who'd come to settle his sister Polly after their mother's death. The girl smiled at the fact that the soldier might speak of her intended, George.

Bordon, kneeling still over his pack, had already found his journal. But now knowing that they'd stumbled upon a conversation about a vital theater of defense, he decided to have a listen, hoping they would expose some intelligence he could use. He stole a quick glance up at Miss Burwell, but could see that she wasn't watching him. Indeed, she was listening as intently to them as he was. He decided to draw out his rummaging so as not to arouse any suspicion. So, he busied himself, smiling and snickering under his breath, pulling over another pack as the men talked and Betsy daydreamed.

"Yes!" Andrew Callon answered. "Acres and miles of trees and prairie and rolling hills and game. Mostly unspoilt land. Why the trees are so tall and thick. Buffalo and all manner of beasts and fowl crawl and fly. You like to never go hungry. You can go days without ever seeing another man or Indian."

"Truly?"

"Yes! I'm anxious to get back there, but I have to see to my sister first."

"And Major Clark!," the sixteen year old farmhand exclaimed, "Is he really not afraid of anything? There are stories of him all over the gazettes!"

"Not much scares him," answered the private. "He has little patience with the British and Indians—anyone—who threatens the settlers. And famous he is! Everywhere we go people know him. If they don't know his face, the minute he is introduced, they recognize his name."

Another bale of hay landed with a thud in the walkway. Betsy scarcely noticed. She was busy thinking of the handsome Major Clark, remembering him from Charles Towne last summer. The girl also thought of having him as a husband. Good Lord, she thought inwardly, he is so well known and sought after. When will we ever have time alone?

"He certainly is popular with the women on the frontier," Callon remarked.

"Women? He is?" asked young Jonathon, still enthralled over the exploits of the frontiersman Clark.

On the other side of the stall, hidden by a high wood planked wall, Miss Burwell scowled. She knew that young soldiers seemed to be distracted by women. But certainly not George, she thought.

Hugh looked up from his rummaging to catch the young girl frowning. He folded his pack shut and quickly stood up. Though he was an intelligence officer and welcomed the uncensored information, he did have some pity for his prisoner, knowing she had been through a lot these last couple of weeks. The captain didn't think she needed to be exposed to barracks gossip. The officer tucked his journal into his jacket and prepared to usher the girl from the barn. He would find a way to wrestle more information from this rebel private later, away from Miss Burwell's ears.

"Oh Yes," Andrew assured. "In the settlements, the women follow him about. He is a highly sought after dance partner at any of the parties he gets to attend."

Jonathon skewered another straw bale and tossed it into the aisle way, where it landed solidly next to another bale. He stopped to rest a moment and listen to the amazing words from the mouth of Private Callon.

"And even the Indian women—"

"I thought he had no tolerance for them," interrupted Jonathon.

"He _has_ made friends with some of them out of necessity," Andrew recanted. "And the ones he has befriended really seem to like and admire him and his bravery. So much so that they want his blood in their tribes."

"You mean he…" the incredulous young Andrew's voice trailed off, as if he could not mention something so taboo.

"Yea," said Callon with a bit of a nasty smile on his lips and a nod of his head. "The chiefs want his blood mingled with theirs…..into their future generations. They welcome and even sanction him having congress with the redskin maidens they select….or that he desires."

Betsy's jaw dropped and her eyes rounded at the revelation of what her fiancé was doing on the frontier when he wasn't fighting. She was clearly shocked, and Bordon was worried about her hearing this talk. He reached to take her arm to guide her away, but was stopped when she jerked suddenly, facing away from him and at the wall, as if she could see the two young men on the other side of it.

"I've been with him on occasion when he disappears into the tents and lodges with the Indian girls," the private boasted. "He has even had a squaw once in awhile, whenever an Indian husband wants Clark's seed in his family. The red men don't seem to mind their wives bearing a half breed child with that major's traits."

The girl sucked in a deep breath, stunned at hearing this. She felt a tingle on her skin, now flushed with humiliation that people knew and talked of women that her future husband consorted with.

The loud thump of another bale of hay tossed onto the ground made her jump and brought her from her stupor of astonishment. Betsy looked to the side and saw Captain Bordon standing there with a look of concern on his face, apology in his eyes. She realized now that he had heard all this about her gallant fiancé. Embarrassed that he had, she spun on her heel, picked up her skirts and ran from the stables.

Hugh sighed and rolled his eyes. He wished now that he would have asked Miss Burwell to wait for him outside the stables, then maybe she wouldn't have heard the disgraceful exchange. The man understood that that was distressing talk for any woman to have overheard, especially hard on a young, life inexperienced girl. Blaming himself, he trotted out of the barn and after the young woman.

"Miss Burwell!" he called after the girl.

Betsy heard the captain calling. She was aware that she was running, but not sure where she was headed to. The girl had only wanted to find a place to hide from the embarrassment she felt.

"Miss Burwell!

When she heard the officer call a second time, she stopped running. Betsy heaved a sullen sigh and looked down at the ground. She swallowed hard, trying to hold back tears of shame. The girl turned around slowly to face the captain. He had a sympathetic look on his face.

"Men often exaggerate when they gossip like that," he said simply.

"Only when they are speaking about themselves," she shot back.

"Not necessarily," Hugh said, hoping to smooth over the situation. "Sometimes they brag about the situations they're in or something the men with them did."

"You heard him yourself, captain," she replied back, her temper and distress clearly showing. "My supposed fiancé is spreading his seed all over the frontier! He's bedding women in the settlements _and_ Indian maidens!"

"Miss Burwell, he was boasting."

"It didn't sound as if he was."

"You don't even know if it's true," Bordon pointed out. "He never stated that he had been with him and seen him disappear into these natives' tents."

Betsy looked down at the ground and shook her head. The girl then sighed and put her hand on her forehead, her head throbbing as the private's words repeated themselves within her mind.

She turned away from the captain. "What kind of man did my father give me too?", she lamented to herself, as if she was alone.

Captain Bordon thought for a moment, still wanting to alleviate the girl's dismay. He decided to impart something to her that he usually wouldn't discuss with a female. However, though she was young, she was due to be married. She needed to grow up and know the ways of men sometime.

"Miss Burwell, you must try to understand something," he began, slowly, measuring his words.

The girl turned back to look at him, wondering what he had to say. She stood quietly and let him continue.

"It is a time of war. And as you have experienced, things do not remain the same," said Hugh, delicately. "And sometimes men act differently when they are far away from home…..away from wives and sweethearts. Men have urges."

Betsy gave him a scathing look, thinking that he was trying to defend George's behavior while away. The girl didn't want another soldier—especially an enemy—excusing what her fiancé was doing during his free time on the frontier.

The girl opened her mouth to answer the captain, then she drew in a sharp breath. Suddenly, she recollected a conversation her father and mother had last summer before he left. Harry spoke with Katy about how General Washington had given orders to all leaders to try to keep their men's behavior decent. Colonel Burwell had lamented aloud to his wife, wondering how he could make the young soldiers act as gentlemen, banish all the women from camp, yet keep the morale up. Now Miss Burwell understood what the captain was trying to explain.

Before she could speak, another memory flashed across her mind. She remembered her mother missing her father terribly when he was away from home. She recalled the look of relief coupled with deep love in her parent's eyes, how they held each other, and how they kissed when they would reunite. The girl now understood that the two of them had urges and longings to be satisfied when away from each other.

All these thoughts, but she still didn't like hearing gossip of her future husband's lewd behavior. What would it do to his reputation, then theirs as a society couple when he returned and they married, she asked herself.

"Women have urges, too," she defended.

"They're not to be acted on," the officer warned squarely.

"Why?" she asked, anger washing over her demeanor.

"Because men want to marry proper ladies, not trollops," Hugh counseled, his voice deep and serious.

She knew what he was trying to tell her, but she still was not happy about the situation or his attempt to explain it.

"Why is it excused when men have urges?" she asked, frustration on her face. "It is something the soldiers brag about and something women and officers overlook."

"It is not always excused," the captain maintained. "Our generals have warned the men to act like gentlemen and have even made some of the men take responsibility for their by blows."

Betsy crossed her arms in front of her chest. She was irritated that men were treated differently and allowed to act so. The girl remembered her brother, Steven, being allowed by her father to do things she was never let to do.

"Well, maybe I will start a set of my own rumors," she said. "They will certainly travel back to the frontier with Private Callon. Then we'll see what Major George Rogers Clark thinks."

Bordon narrowed his eyes at the girl. He knew what she implied: anything, even if it would threaten her reputation, to get revenge upon Clark for her own hurt.

"You don't want to do that," the officer opposed. "It is not a good idea."

"Why?", Betsy asked.

"Because no man will want to marry you," Hugh answered flatly. "Those rumors will ruin your reputation and that of your family name."

Miss Burwell put her hands over her face as she felt tears of frustration leaking from her eyes. She turned away from the captain, humiliated over this whole situation, and that she couldn't hold her emotion at bay. After a minute, she took a deep breath then wiped the tears from her eyes. After a small sigh, she turned around and faced Captain Bordon.

"Why would I want to marry a man that has lain with savages?" she asked in earnest.

"Miss Burwell, you should confront Major Clark when next you see him," he stated, "but tread carefully if you do, for all this is probably not true."

His words fell on deaf ears. The girl kept on wondering aloud. "What am I to tell my future Clark children….how am I to explain why there are tall, light skinned savages with red hair and blue eyes running about?"

"You don't know for sure that he's had_ any_ unions with these Indian women," Bordon comforted, "or if he has, that they have even produced any half breed children."

The two stood silent for a moment. Bordon had no idea what else to say to console the girl. Betsy was lost in her distress over the situation.

Hugh broke the silence. "Miss Burwell, you are dismissed. Why don't you go on back to the house. I can find my way around the plantation."

She nodded her head in agreement and turned to walk toward the house. Before she left, the captain spoke again.

"I'm sorry that you heard that," he apologized. The officer turned and walked toward a group of outbuildings.

Betsy felt confused. She was glad that the usually diplomatic Bordon had tried to comfort her and explain things to her. Yet she was upset to hear the ugly truth, which she had sort of felt already in her soul: that women were expected to put up with the behavior, and that women would always be treated differently.

For some unknown reason, she called after the officer.

"Captain Bordon."

He stopped in his tracks and turned back to face the girl. "Yes?"

"My fifteenth birthday was last week and no one even knew," she informed in a forlorn tone.

Hugh Bordon lifted his eyebrows in small surprise. He nodded his head to the girl. "Well, happy belated birthday, Miss Burwell."

/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/

**Author's note: There are old rumors around here in Indiana, part of the old Northwest Territory captured by George Rogers Clark, that he had had relations with Indian maidens sanctioned happily by these chiefs that liked him and did want his traits and blood running in their generations. Rumors too, that he had bundled with a woman or two in some of the settlements. No one has been able to prove this and he didn't leave a detailed diary behind of his personal life. I did check some of the Native American genealogical blogs on line to see if anyone claims descendency from him, and saw nothing of this. That doesn't mean that he did or did not leave any children behind by Indian women or even that he had any liaisons with them. It is family legend, handed down from his sisters and brothers, then his nieces and nephews that he had been engaged to Teresa De Leyba, a spanish girl who lived in St. Louis, which was Spanish territory at the time of the American Revolution. She was thought to be the sister or daughter of the Spanish governor of the Spanish territory at that time. Governor De Leyba and his wife died while here in the colonies, and Teresa either was sent back to Spain, or went back willingly. For some unknown reason, the engagement was broken off between Clark and De Leyba, and he never married after that. There is also another rumor that he had an affair when he was older and lived at Clark's Point in southern Indiana on the Ohio River, with a mulatto woman servant. I followed some blogs on that one as well but couldn't find an exact source. **

**Interesting note: Of the 6 Clark brothers, only two-the oldest, Jonathon, and the youngest,William (of Lewis and Clark Expedition fame) married and had children. George and Edmund died as old age bachelors with no "known" children. Johnny and Richard died as young bachelors right after military discharge, with no "known" children. All four of the Clark sisters-Anne, Lucy, Elizabeth, and Fanny, all married and had children. Anne, Lucy, and Fanny all lived into old age. Elizabeth was still young when she died-dying in childbirth with her 4th child. **

**Another interesting note: One of the Clark's decendents, on William's bloodline, are the Churchills. Yes-of Churchill Downs Horse Racing Track (The Kentucky Derby) in Louisville, Kentucky.**

**Anyway, I thought the rumor of Clark with Indian maidens would be a good source of contention for our young Betsy.**


	14. Chapter 13: Unwelcome Visitors

**Hi all-again, sorry it has taken so long to update. Real life takes precedence! Thanks for reading and your comments. Enjoy!**

**JScorpio**

Chapter 13: Unwelcome Visitors

Within two days, it seemed that things had finally settled down at the Burwell plantation—as much as things could resolve under the enemy's billet. The redcoat stragglers had finally made their way onto the farm and had settled into the new village of canvas strung out across the lawn of the plantation.

Though the enemy had settled in and was already feeling quite at home in their new camp, the rebel residents of the Burwell farm were unnerved at having to work for and share their home with their new masters. The female servants were especially disturbed, now suffering through the infantrymen's lewd comments, forward advances, and general unrestrained behavior.

Despite the bad behavior by the infantry, the elite Green Dragoons were acting as gentlemen. They had been reminded to maintain that demeanor by their superiors. The residents were thankful that the cavalrymen were proper acting, yet they lived on edge, always mindful of Colonel Tavington's sudden outbursts of temper. They would never forget the brutality forced upon the hands of their young mistress, Betsy Burwell. That memory was enough to keep them looking over their shoulders.

This afternoon, Betsy had taken refuge from the summer heat and the new redcoat residents in the house. After helping with morning and afternoon chores, she had retreated to the solace of a cool corner in the first floor parlor. The house was quiet with most of the servants attending to duties in the yard and outbuildings.

After an hour or so of reading, Betsy noticed the house to be still unusually silent. Usually within the course of her respite, one of the servants would occasionally enter the room to pass through it or to check on her. Suspicious of what they were up to, yet worried for them since the enemy was about, the girl put her book down and looked about, listening for one of their voices. When she heard and saw still nothing, she rose and walked across the room.

Miss Burwell peered out the side window, looking around for her staff. Not seeing them, she quickly moved out of the room and into the hallway. The girl soon entered the preparation kitchen in the back of the house, stopping to gaze out the window onto the back lawn. It was there that she caught sight of a small group of her female servants. They had stopped their work and were now standing about chattering. The women all stared in the same direction.

Indeed the house staff were staring at the last bit of camp followers that were tromping onto the property. The women in the group coming in were garishly dressed, waving and flirting openly with the soldiers about them. Their behavior was shocking. These women acted as low class as the ill mannered infantrymen at the farm conducted themselves.

Mrs. Leyanova stood in the middle, the rest of the girls gathered about her. All of them stared angrily at the small group of prostitutes that paraded in.

Myriam, a pretty quadroon servant, spoke up. "What are _they_ doing here?

"They look like the kind of women that my mother never spoke to in town," twelve year old Polly commented.

"That is EXACTLY what they are," Pansy, another house servant, confirmed.

"Strumpets!" Myriam spat with contempt.

"Shlewhuh!" Mrs. Leyanova swore in her native tongue of Russian.

"What did she say?" young Polly asked.

"I think she called them harlots," Myriam surmised.

The whores carried on with no regard for the surroundings. They flirted loudly, even calling some of the men by their first names. Regular customers, no doubt.

"Just look at them— all tarted up," Pansy cursed. "Carrying on with those men and not even here five minutes yet!"

"Disgraceful!" Mrs. Leyanova said, hands planted firmly on her hips.

About this time, Betsy wandered into the midst of the group. The girl knew they wouldn't have stopped their work if there wasn't something wrong.

"What's the trouble?" she asked of the servants.

"_They're_ the trouble," Leyanova answered, pointing accusingly in the direction of the prostitutes.

Miss Burwell's jaw dropped as her eyes widened. The young plantation mistress was aghast. She could not recall a time that women such as the likes of these had ever set a foot on her family's farm.

"Trollops!", said Betsy under her breath, staring in disbelief at the harridans.

"It's bad enough that we have to serve the Lobsters," Pansy spat, "and now we have to deal with their women!"

Betsy shook her head, still staring intently at the group of loose women. "No. I'm not about to let them live among us."

"What will you do," asked Polly.

"I'm going to speak to Captain Bordon about this," huffed Miss Burwell. And in an instant, she marched away from her servants. After moving past the kitchen and yet another of the outbuildings, Betsy soon spotted the dragoon's second in command conferring with Private Dunn. The two redcoats seemed not to notice the commotion that the newly arrived prostitutes were causing.

Betsy picked up her skirts and picked up her pace from a stomp to a meaningful trot. "Captain Bordon!" she called as she moved along quickly.

The officer and the private looked up at the girl. The dragoon adjutant could hear the urgency in the young woman's voice. He let out an audible sigh of agitation, causing the private beside him to smile and snicker, knowing this girl could be a handful of trouble. Hugh knew that something must be wrong, but hoped that it wasn't too serious.

The girl was soon beside the two dragoons. A scowl contorted the mouth on her pretty face as she looked up at the British officer. "Captain! I don't want those women here!"

"What women?" Hugh Bordon asked, perplexed.

"The doxies," Betsy answered, pointing at the camp followers moving through the men happily welcoming them onto the farm. "They can't stay! I won't allow it! This is NOT a brothel!"

After a quick look at the strumpets moving in he turned back to the girl. He wasn't pleased that she'd interrupted his conference with Private Dunn, and the disrespectful edge in her voice didn't help the situation.

Hugh glared down at the young woman. "Won't allow it?" he questioned with a raised eyebrow, questioningly repeating her words. "I don't think I like your tone, Miss Burwell."

The girl sucked in a quick breath as she took a step back from the men. She knew that the officer was indirectly warning her not to give orders to her captors. The girl stilled her tongue for an instant, composing herself. She had to come up with a better, more diplomatic and calm way to approach the officer about this.

Miss Burwell took in a deep breath, then let it out slowly, preparing herself to sound a bit more humble. "Captain, I have to draw the line somewhere," she said slowly, measuring her words to stay calm. "We can't have women like that living here."

"Why?" he asked.

"It's a distraction," she answered plainly.

Bordon looked at the private, Dunn, who still stood beside him. Both men shot each other amused grins. "A welcome one for the soldiers," the officer smirked.

Betsy was not amused and spoke up immediately. "And an unwelcome one for my household."

"That's ridiculous," the captain countered. "They won't bother you."

"Don't I have a say in what goes on at my own farm?"

"No," Bordon answered squarely.

"Don't you see?" Betsy explained. "Having them here will ruin my family's name."

"Nonsense," Hugh argued. "They're here for the soldiers. People will—"

"No. Just having them here will hurt business," she pointed out. "People will not want to buy or trade with us if they think we are running a bawdy house."

"You're being absurd," replied Bordon.

"Captain," she began emphatically, "there are brothels in the surrounding villages. Send your men there."

"Miss Burwell, I can't have my men constantly leaving camp to seek the services of prostitutes. I'd have no men left here at all!"

Suddenly, for some off reason, Captain Bordon recalled that Miss Burwell had just had her fifteenth birthday a few days ago, causing him to remember _just how young_ this girl was. Good Lord, he thought, she was no more than fourteen just a few days ago, and now she is no more than fifteen. This led him to ask an odd question in the midst of their argument.

"Wait a moment," he said, stopping the flow of their discussion. "How is it that you know so much about this subject at _your_ young age?"

Betsy's face showed a puzzled look rivaling the perplexed look on the captain's face. "What do you mean?" she queried, truly unsure what he referred to.

"Must you make me say it," Hugh said in exasperation, rolling his eyes at the girl's innocence.

"Your distress over your fiance's supposed lewd activities with Indian maidens," the captain reminded her. "And now your behavior over this. You are TOO YOUNG to know what transpires between men and women behind closed doors."

Betsy began to blush furiously, her cheeks pink and hot. She looked down at the ground, unable to look the big officer in the eye for the moment. The girl clasped her hands behind her back as she twisted her toe sheepishly on the ground. It was almost as if it was a secret as to how a young girl should know this much about the basic workings of sex, and now she would have to expose it.

"Well," she began to admit in a quiet and bashful tone, "I_ have_ read 'Fanny Hill'."

Young Private Dunn snickered at the girl's answer, obviously knowing the book and its subject matter made comic.

The dragoon commander rolled his eyes at Miss Burwell's reply, sighing heavily at the mere mention of that book. But the private's amusement drew ire from Captain Bordon. The older officer glared at the younger cavalryman.

Dunn quickly composed himself, wiping the smile from his face. "Sorry, sir."

Hugh Bordon gave the young woman a condescending look. "I'm shocked, Miss Burwell, that a cultured young woman such as yourself, from society, has read that rubbish!"

Betsy's mouth dropped open at his judgment. "I'll wager that half the young men serving under you have that book in their packs!," she shot back.

"That is a wager I do not care to participate in," he said, a bit embarrassed, knowing that the girl was right.

"Ha! They do!" she roared in triumph.

"Yes, but I prefer that they don't corrupt their minds with that filth," Bordon loathed admitting to the girl. "They are told to keep the book discrete and to continue to act like gentlemen."

Betsy and Private Dunn exchanged smiles, remembering the lewd content of the book in question. But Captain Bordon wasn't through yet.

"And where did _you_ get the book?" he asked accusingly of Miss Burwell.

"I found it by accident in my brother's room," she answered innocently. "It told me what my mother nor anyone else would tell me."

The captain shook his head, still in disbelief that this young, innocent waif had read such a disgusting book, in his opinion. He continued to look down at the girl, silently scolding her for reading it.

Betsy felt the sudden need to defend herself. "Well, I needed to know what to expect of marriage!"

"There are more reputable sources than that drivel to inform you of what to expect of marrital life," Bordon advised. "But back to what we were discussing. Those….offensive women…keep the men's morale up. They are staying."

"Captain," she pleaded, "your family has a business. _Surely_ you know how important a good reputation is to it."

"Yes, I do," the officer answered. "But it would be better if the women stay."

"Captain, you don't understand—"

"No, Miss Burwell," he interrupted sharply. "You don't understand my position. Though I am your enemy and captor, and a commander to these men, I must act in everyone's best interest."

The girl was too stunned to say anything. How could having common harridans around be in everyone's best interest, she wondered to herself.

Bordon could tell that the girl was puzzled. He continued to explain things. "You see, miss, you must think forward—into the future, if you like, of all that could possibly happen. Situations could escalate."

"I don't understand," Betsy said, in a lost voice.

"Miss Burwell," he began, "if I send the trollops away, then you will find the men discharging their urges on the nearest females—which happen to be the women on your staff."

"They wouldn't dare!" Betsy challenged, astonished that the captain would say such a thing. "You wouldn't let them, would you?"

"Well, the colonel and I can issue orders all we like, but orders can be broken," he warned. "I can't always control the men."

Captain Bordon continued on, trying to persuade the young plantation mistress to comprehend his thinking. "That new indentured girl is awfully young," Hugh cajoled. "You wouldn't want to see her compromised, would you?"

Betsy gasped. She was in disbelief that he would bring up young Polly's possible loss of her virtue. Too stunned to counter, she listened with saucer eyes to the officer.

"Suppose a couple of your female servants or slaves come up in a family way," continued the dragoon captain. "Then how will they attend to their work? How will they work and care for the babes? Then you have more mouths to feed."

Hugh watched the young woman carefully. She sighed and looked down at the ground, clearly defeated. The girl stood in silence, and Bordon could tell she was thinking about what he said.

Indeed Betsy was mulling over in her mind what the officer had said. She did see how the situation could escalate. But despite that, she still didn't like or want the camp whores on her farm. It was clear to her that she would have to take the lesser of two evils. The girl certainly didn't want her female servants and slaves taken advantage of by the soldiers.

"Please keep them away from us," Betsy asked quietly. "If you can keep them out of sight…"

"I'll make sure they set their tents up as far away from the house and buildings as possible," he promised.

"I hope the officers don't bring them up to the house so they can….ply their trade there," Betsy commented. "That would be an insult to me."

"They will be told to confine their activities to their tents," the captain assured.

"I'm still not happy with having them here," Betsy said. "As I am sure my staff won't be either."

As she spoke, she noticed Polly striding toward them. Miss Burwell certainly didn't want the young indentured servant hearing any of this conversation.

"They stay, Miss Burwell, and that's final." With that, Hugh turned back to Private Dunn, conversing with him again just as Polly arrived into the fold.

"Miss, this message came for you a moment ago," Miss Callan informed, handing the note to her mistress. "Its urgent!"

"Yes, thank you," said Betsy as she took the letter from the servant's hand. She watched as Polly turned to scamper away.

Miss Burwell did not recognize the writing on the letter, which looked as if it had been quickly written and sealed. She opened the note and began to read.

A message arriving for the plantation mistress did not escape Captain Bordon's notice. He wondered what was in the note, hoping for a good piece of useable intelligence.

Betsy read the note then gasped, putting her hand over her mouth. In disbelief, she quickly re-read the note.

The officer watched the young woman as she read, and noticed her seemingly go white, losing her color. He became concerned when he saw her gasp.

Her right arm dropped listlessly to her side, her hand still holding the note. Betsy looked out over the grass, feeling her head spin, and forgetting all sense of time and space. Then the tears came.

Hugh took a step away from Private Dunn, moving toward Betsy. She looked as if she might collapse.

"Miss Burwell, may I be of assistance?" he asked, truly concerned.

The girl, not even realizing she was doing it, put her right arm behind her, offering the letter to the officer. The man took another step and reached for the letter.

As he took it from the girl, he watched as she brought her hands up to cover her face. Then he heard her weeping softly.

Captain Bordon opened the letter and read it silently as Miss Burwell sobbed into her hands.

/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/

**Yes-Mrs. Leyanova called the women "whores" in Russian. I wrote it phonetically as best as I could. I can't even attempt to reproduce it here how it is spelled in Russian. Trust me-I researched it!**

**Camp followers were not necessarily all whores. There were alot of women and children, some related to the soldiers, some not, that did the support work like sewing and cooking and nursing. And, the "working girls" followed, as well, especially to the British camps because the redcoats were decently paid. General George Washington did not like having camp followers around-especially the prostitutes. He didn't like having so many women and children coming into and out of the camps for obvious intelligence reasons, and he didn't like having the trollops there to take advantage of the men and their money and for the obvious moral reasons. But he let them stay because it kept the numbers of his troops up (he didn't have so many men deserting, or men sneaking away to brothels) and kept the morale up. The British commanders were more at ease with having the followers-especially the whores-around.**

**Fanny Hill-an INFAMOUS and popular novel from the 1700s. Also known as Fanny Hill: Memoirs Of A Woman Of Pleasure. It was written by John Cleland in England in 1748 while he was in debtors prison. It was an erotic novel complete with illustrations. Alot of people were educated about sex by reading it back then. And yes, it did make it into the backpacks of alot of soldiers during the Revolutionary War. I won't put the link here, but if you go to the Wikipedia website and type in Fanny Hill, more about the book will come up and also a few of the erotic illustrations, and MY MY! They are indeed racy!**

**Bawdy house-Brothel**

**Bawd, Bawdy, Doxy...18thc words for prositutes. Harridan, Strumpet, Trollop, Harlot...same thing...low class or loose women.**

**Lobster(s) - slang term of that era for Redcoat soldiers.**


	15. Chapter 14: Dismal News Arrives

**Author's note: Hi all. I am so sorry for not updating sooner. Since I last updated, I did the George Rogers Clark march. Its a recreation of Clark's forces march into Vincennes (Indiana) to take Fort Sackville from the British on Feb. 25, 1779. There was about 30 of us and it was a mild winter day. Some of us dressed in regular clothing, the other half and the Park Rangers in 18th Century clothing. Lots of reenactors there. There was a descendant of one of the french soldiers that was in Clark's force. He came from Kaskaskia, where Clark's force started out from to march along southern Illinois and make their way into Indiana after crossing the Wabash. It was a monumental feat. The Clark Memorial National Park in Vincennes, which stands where the fort stood, sponsors the walk every year. They take you out 5 miles south of Vincennes by bus and drop you off, then the group follows the rangers back to Vincennes taking the route, alot of it now marked by a road, nearest the Wabash that Clark and his army was thought to have taken. Along the way, we stopped and heard history of the area, what Clark was doing at that point, and compared how the area looked at that time versus how it looks now. It was a great day! I wore my Notre Dame University "Rudy" (from the movie Rudy) jacket, and with my red hair, the reenactors knew I had some Irish blood in me! They also asked if I was a descendant of the Rogers Clark family (not that I know of) because George, William, and three other of the Clark siblings all had copper red hair (and it is reported that George had the fiery temper to go with his red hair). The red hair apparently came from their mother and the Rogers side of the family.**

**Real life as always, comes first before writing, so am sorry for the delay in updating. Have also done some revising of the outline for future parts of this story, so still trying to organize that and get my mind around it! And, let me promise the Tavington fans...that while there isn't much of him in the story now, his part of this story is more prominent in the last half. So, do stay tuned for Tavvy!**

**Enjoy and thanks for the interest and reading the story!**

**JScorpio**

Chapter 14: Dismal News Arrives

Private Dunn stood by surveying the situation as his superior had not yet released him. His eyes floated from Miss Burwell, who was still sobbing, her face buried in her hands, to his commander, Captain Bordon, who read the message intently. The young cavalryman felt awkward just standing there with the girl crying and his leader reading a piece of private correspondence, yet he dared not leave until properly dismissed.

Hugh stayed quiet as he studied the urgent message that Betsy had been given by a servant:

_1 August 1777_

_Dear Miss Burwell, _

_I regret to inform you that Stephen has departed this life. We were involved in a skirmish when we came accidentally upon a group of redcoats. Your brother fought bravely as he always did._

_He was injured grievously. We were detached and not near camp, so no doctor was available. A kindly farmer and his wife, within whose field we fought, took pity and tried to help us. Stephen died an hour after the fight ended. I was with him when he passed._

_We are within 15 miles of home, but I write in haste as we are ready to move again. I have entrusted Stephen to the care of this good man. He assures me that he will deliver your brother to you in the next day or two. We are so close to home that I do not see the use of burying him here. It is only fitting that your brother should, and I am assured will, rest at home with your mother and family._

_I shall miss your brother greatly. He was my best friend. _

_Please take care of yourself. These are hard times. _

_Lord, help us!_

_Truly, _

_Private Ethan Drandly_

Hugh folded the letter as he sighed. He looked up at the young woman, who was weeping terribly at the loss of her brother. The officer was quiet, not sure what words to say that could bring any comfort. He felt for the girl, knowing she had lost her mother a year ago, and other young siblings in previous years, and now her older brother was gone. Her father was so many miles away fighting, and she was here bearing this dismal news alone.

The captain turned to the soldier beside him. "Uh, Private, would you please see Miss Burwell to the house?" he requested.

Then he addressed Betsy. "Would you like me to speak with your servants of this?"

The girl raised her head from her hands, sniffling all the while. She turned back to Captain Bordon, her head and eyes still downcast.

"Yes. Thank you," she said, lost. She was consumed in the initial stages of grief, not thinking in her right mind to let someone else—_not_ one of her redcoat captors—address her household staff of this tragedy. Yet in reality, something inside told her to let him do it, for she knew that she would not be strong enough to hold the tears back for even a moment while trying to inform them; that she'd probably do nothing more than hand the note to one of them to read as she wandered away from them in a daze, with Private Dunn not far behind her.

The captain folded the letter back up and sighed. The officer looked down at the folded message in his hand. "Damn," he swore quietly at it, partly because it yielded no functional intelligence for him to use, and partially that it bore bad news that upset the plantation's mistress. And though they were enemies, and she their prisoner, he still felt compassion for the girl. He thought her too young to have all this misery in such a short time. And worse, she had no family near to see her through it.

Hugh looked up, his eyes scanning the people moving about the farm. After a moment, he finally spotted the farm's overseer. The dragoon adjutant moved purposely toward the man, who was at the edge of the western field, just by the barn, talking to two slaves.

Jake Waldron looked up as he saw the redcoat officer approaching. Cautiously, he stopped his conversation with the slaves.

"Mr. Waldron, a word alone, please," Bordon said in an official sounding voice.

The slaves moved away as Waldron went with the officer a few steps away. They moved back into the field, anxious to get away from the British commander. These redcoats weren't as kindly to them as the Burwell family and others on this farm had been.

"You should gather all the staff and servants," Bordon advised, "I am entrusting you to relay a message to them in Miss Burwell's stead."

Jake eyed the redcoat leader with suspicion, always on guard around their new British tenants. "And what is that?" he asked with an edge in his voice.

"Young master Stephen Burwell is dead," informed the dragoon leader. "Killed in battle."

The farmhand gave the officer a look of cautious doubt. Inside, Jake immediately questioned to himself if the news was true. He suspected that the British were trying to trick him. Waldron wasn't sure what they were trying to draw out of him with such a horrid lie. Are they trying to startle me, he asked himself. Good God, haven't they done that to all of us enough already? How much more are we expected to take?

His doubt quickly changed to annoyance at what he thought was a test of his emotion. The overseer spoke up, never afraid to do so. "Why should I trust that this information is true?" asked Waldron.

Hugh Bordon stayed calm . He knew the man would challenge him. The officer was used to this from the rebels. They all questioned the validity of anything he disclosed to them, whether true news or the necessary lies he had to spin to coax intelligence from them.

"Miss Burwell received a message," answered the captain. "She gave it to me to inspect."

The redcoat handed the letter to Mr. Waldron. He shot the dragoon adjutant a suspicious look, thinking that Bordon had probably _made_ the poor girl hand it over to him.

"I assure you that she gave it to me of her own accord," Hugh assuaged.

Captain Bordon watched the farm hand as he opened the note. He genuinely felt badly for Waldron as the man heaved a forlorn sigh, his muscular farm honed body visibly seeming to deflate.

"I advised against his leaving," Jake spoke out in anguish, his voice low. He continued, talking to himself, as if he'd forgotten that the enemy stood within two feet of him. "My God, she begged him not to go," he lamented as he folded the note back.

The farmhand turned back to the captain. He was visibly emotional as he spoke. "Where's Miss Betsy?"

"She retired to the house."

Waldron, looking lost, began to walk toward the main house. "I need to send someone up to talk to her," he murmured as if alone, again.

Bordon started after him. "Uh….if you'd like," he said hesitantly, trying to show compassion as he offered, "I can order a burial detail of my men."

"Thank you kindly, but no," answered Jake in a tired tone. "He died at the hand of your brethren. He wouldn't want them to be the ones to inter him. We will bury him."

"Very well," Bordon replied.

"I'll inform the staff," Mr. Waldron said in a lost voice as he walked away.

Hugh bowed his head and walked toward the main house as well, seeking Colonel Tavington. He stayed well behind the overseer, leaving the man to his solace.

Soon, the second in command found himself in the house on the first floor, standing outside of the library. Tavington had made the modest sized room into his office. Bordon looked in to see his commander, busily writing a report. He rapped on the door frame.

"Colonel?"

William looked up at the door. "Ah, Bordon, come in."

"Might I have a word sir," he requested as he stepped in. The officer closed the door behind him as Tavington motioned him to.

"Certainly."

Hugh took the chair in front of his commander's desk and looked on patiently as William signed something, then placed the quill back in the well. "How goes it, captain?"

"There's news," he began. Tavington leaned forward, folding his hands on his desk.

"Miss Burwell's brother was killed in a skirmish yesterday," Bordon announced. "The friend from town that he ran away with to the militia sent a note."

"Well, that's one less rebel to worry about," Tavington said wryly. "Their militia is in bad need of formal training."

"A farmer is delivering his corpse for burial here," the captain informed. "The skirmish was not too far….the letter mentioned fifteen miles away."

"Let's send a detachment after the rebels," the colonel requested.

"I would have already ordered it, but the letter didn't disclose exactly where they were," answered the subaltern. "We could have tracked them through the farm where the fight took place, but the note didn't mention the farmer's name, either."

"Damn," Colonel Tavington swore. "Well, no use depleting our force here by sending the men in four different directions over the bloody countryside."

There was a calm silence between the two officers, each contemplating how close Stephen Burwell's militia had been; each man wishing the letter had given more details. Both dragoon leaders thought Private Drandly careful, even in the midst of grief, that he remembered himself and kept the information vague.

Hugh Bordon broke the quiet. "Sir, I have something else I'd like to discuss with you."

"Go ahead," Tavington permitted, leaning back in his chair, relaxing.

"Well, colonel, we've been here a few days and have settled in well," began Hugh, tentatively.

"I agree," Tavington commented.

"I know that it is my duty to see to the prisoners," the captain stated, "and I've kept a close watch on Colonel Burwell's daughter since she's been in our custody. However, I'd like to be relieved of that now."

He was met with only silence and a stony stare from his commander. The look on Tavington's face seemed to scold Bordon for not being able to read the colonel's mind.

"Go on," William said, finally after an uneasy silence.

"I am not a nanny," Bordon answered, "and I feel I could better serve our needs if I could concentrate on my duties without distraction."

The colonel looked down at his desk and sighed. "Captain, I know you are not a nursemaid. But she still needs to be…..uh….protected….for our interests."

He knew that his leader was talking about guarding her. Actually, more like preventing her escape or a rescue attempt. She was, after all, a bargaining chip for them.

"With respect, sir," Bordon disagreed, "I don't think she would try to escape. She is too afraid. And I believe her youth would lead her to some kind of blunder to foul any attempt to run. And I don't think she could be rescued. The locals have surely already heard of our line of vedettes and pickets at the plantation perimeter."

"It's not only that, Bordon," Tavington spoke up. He leaned forward in his chair again. "Intelligence tells us that a lot of these villages around here sympathize with the rebels and even aid them. And there are covert networks—"

"She's too young and naïve to spy or even have a part in those channels," Hugh argued.

"Her father is a colonel," reminded William Tavington. "Perhaps they use her knowingly—or unwittingly by her part—to carry messages to him or from him. Maybe they speak or write things in code that she unknowingly relays to him in letters."

"I don't think so," Bordon disagreed.

"You still should stay close to her," he advised. "She may reveal a clue."

Hugh disagreed. He thought the girl too simple and wide eyed of the world to be involved in some spy plot. The officer assumed that she probably had knowledge of aid channels within the countryside, but that she was not involved in them. The young woman was simply too busy running the farm from day to day.

"Sir, one of the junior officers could watch her," Bordon suggested. "Perhaps Lieutenant Wentworth—"

"You are the best at interpreting information," Tavington interrupted with a compliment.

"Thank you, sir," the captain answered, "but it's just that I've hardly time for all my duties." Bordon's tasks as second in command had him busy handling not only the intelligence, but recruiting, training, and most administrative duties. He counted himself lucky that Wentworth served as paymaster and quartermaster, relieving the second in command of those tasks.

Tavington was growing wary of Bordon's excuses, though viable ones, to be released from tending to the youthfully reckless and mouthy Miss Burwell. Her youthful foolishness, audacity, and quick, unthinking words and actions had tried the patience of _both_ dragoon commanders. However, William still needed a trustworthy and discreet officer to stay close to her, dissecting her little world for the good of the cause.

"Bordon, I needn't remind you that we are at war," the cavalry leader scolded as he stood up. "We_ all _have full plates right now. I am confident that you will find a way to work it all in."

Bordon stood up, bowing his head to his commander. He knew the conversation was over; no use arguing further.

"Very well, sir," Hugh acknowledged.

/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/

That same day somewhere deep in North Carolina, a young boy of twelve walked along a dusty road outside of Raleigh. He seemed carefree, carrying a stringer full of fish that he'd caught.

Soon, the child heard hooves pounding the road nearby causing him to look around for the source of the noise. He discerned that the riders were coming up behind him so he moved over to let the men through. As he peered back over his shoulder, the boy saw bright red coats.

He shuddered at the sight of the enemy and wanted to hide but it was too late, realizing that the group had already seen him.

It was a small detachment of British; an escort obviously for a couple of fancy uniformed officers. The boy took a deep breath when he heard the horses slow behind him as he tried not to act—or be—afraid.

"You there, boy," one of the men called.

"Yes?" His innocent face was still cherubic with its baby fat making it round and his cheeks full.

"What is your name?"

"Jonathon Bernard."

The boy noticed one of the privates dismounting and immediately became scared. He nervously ran his hand down the front of his shabby pants, patches at different places on it covering the holes. Young Bernard looked up at one of the officers, thinking he was probably a general. The officer leaned forward in his saddle, looking the young man over.

"Where are you from?" he asked of the lad.

"Winston, sir."

"Where are you headed?"

"Home with dinner," he answered, proudly displaying the stringer full of small, but edible fish.

The private walked over to the young boy and took his pack, inspecting it for contraband. When he found none, he then seized the fish the lad had caught and took them back to the officers, now intending it to be an easy dinner for them.

"Sir, my mama will wear me out with a switch iffin' I don't bring them home," Jonathon protested.

"Boy, there must be a stream or pond between here and your home surely," the general dismissed. "If you hurry, you can wet your line again and still be home with dinner before dark. Now off with you, lad."

Young Bernard quickly ran away into the woods. He heard the redcoats chuckling at him as he did. But in the forest, he hid behind a bush, staying low, watching the men until they had ridden out of sight. Once gone, he ran back down to the road. The boy walked along a little farther anxiously looking for a tree marked with a symbol that would lead him to a hidden, overgrown path.

After another mile, he finally found the tree with the word "king" carved on it. From there, he entered the forgotten path, pushing through the brush which threatened to overtake it. When he arrived in a clearing after a hundred feet or so, he made the sound of a blue jay.

The boy waited five minutes then did his bird call again. He was soon answered with the melodic whistle of a cardinal. Jonathon was greeted then by a blue uniformed private, who blindfolded the boy and led him down another path. The child could hear voices and rustling and knew he had been led into the rebel camp he sought.

His blindfold was removed and the boy smiled. "I have a message for Colonel Burwell."

The boy was taken into Harry's tent. The rebel leader sat at his desk, rubbing his temples, trying to stave off the headache that threatened.

Captain Zeller, Burwell's young adjutant, ushered the lad in. "Sir, a message from Devington."

"I was stopped by the lobsters," the boy said. "They took my fish."

Burwell and Zeller laughed. "You're lucky that is the only thing they took, lad," Harry chuckled.

"Mama hid the message well because she thought I might be stopped," said Jonathon. With that, the boy pulled a patch off the thigh on the front of his pants. His clever mother had hidden the note between the boys pants and a patch she'd sewn on to his trousers. Since most of the countryside rebels had fallen on hard times, the redcoats had grown accustomed to seeing the residents in shabby clothes. The lobsters had thought nothing of the boy's patched up clothing.

"Go get some food, Jonathon," Burwell dismissed. "Zeller, give him enough to take back to his mother, as well."

"Very well, sir," the captain replied as he accompanied the boy from the leader's tent.

Harry read the brief note from Jake Waldron, his plantation's overseer, sent through the covert information network connecting the villages and countryside. It was already a few days old. The rebel leader rubbed his eyes then read the message again, this time more slowly.

The colonel focused on the note, studying it hard, as if he was hoping that he was reading it wrong, or that the words on it would somehow magically twist into good news. After another moment, the man flattened the letter on his desk under his palm and sighed. He cradled his forehead, now pounding with a headache, in his hands. And after another minute passed, Burwell folded his arms on his desk and rested his head on them, letting out a groan as he did.

A knock on the tent pole at the door roused Harry out of his stupor. He looked up to see Benjamin Martin standing at the entrance of his canvas abode.

Ben could tell that something was wrong as soon as he could see into the tent, before he knocked. He knew something wasn't right; something was out of place. His commander had probably received bad news, as there wasn't much good news going around these days.

"Come in," Harry called from his desk.

The militia leader took a deep breath as he entered, preparing himself to hear the worst. "Something isn't right," commented Martin. "What's the trouble?"

"Betsy is at home again," Colonel Burwell answered.

That should make him relieved and happy, Martin thought to himself. Yet the militia colonel knew that there was more to it—he'd been fighting the redcoats too long and knew their tactics. They didn't just release the girl, he thought. It is never _that_ simple with the British. He had witnessed the measure of their resolve many times over.

"What aren't you telling me?" Ben pressed.

"She's still in their custody," Harry replied as he stood up from his desk. "They've billeted themselves on my farm….indefinitely." He handed the short message to the militia leader to peruse.

"Betsy's a prisoner now in her own home," Burwell said dejectedly as Martin quickly looked over the message.

"By God, where does this end?" Martin asked aloud in an exasperated tone.

Martin and Burwell were both equally sure that the British would not stop until they possessed fully all the colonies, and every treasure and business and good fortune amassed by the rebellious colonists. "They've seized our properties and assets," Harry lamented, "confiscated our supplies, burnt our homes and fields, raped our women and taken our children. The price of this gets harder to bear by the day."

Benjamin could see his commander starting to waiver. Of course, any man would eventually bend and break under all the strain of this war, Martin thought. But the men in the ranks shouldn't see that. They needed to see a leader that remained committed.

"Stay the course, Harry," Martin cajoled. "For freedom."

"If we lose, they will hang us all as traitors," Burwell said. "If we win, we will all be paupers!"

"Maybe so," Ben conceded, "but we will no longer be under the taxes and tyranny."

"Free but destitute," Harry added. "Then we will have to beg forgiveness from His Majesty just to borrow enough money to get on our feet again."

"We will never beg for anything from the King again," Martin informed. "Hopefully the French King will send us troops and money."

Colonel Burwell nodded, saying nothing. He turned away from Colonel Martin and looked out the door of his tent. "I shouldn't have left her there," Burwell chastised himself under his breath.

Martin heard him. "Don't be so hard on yourself, Harry. You have had some extraordinary decisions to make. Who is to judge what is right and wrong?"

Silence passed between the two, each man contemplating what they'd given up or had lost in the war, and the prices they were paying.

Benjamin broke the quiet. "What do you want to do?"

"I want to get her away from them."

"I will help you anyway I can," Benjamin said. "If you think she will be alright there for awhile—"

"She should be," answered Harry. "I know that Jake and Mr. Hantz will protect her as best they can."

"Then let's stay calm and mull this over for a few days," Colonel Martin advised, "and come up with an airtight plan to get her back."

/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/

That evening at dinner and afterwards when Hugh Bordon strolled the grounds, the mood was somber; the servants were all quiet. Obviously, Mr. Waldron had informed the farm's staff of Stephen Burwell's death, leaving them all saddened. Everyone spoke in subdued voices and attended mindlessly to their chores.

The dragoon's second in command gave some last orders to Lieutenant Wentworth at the stables, who was readying a small detachment for night patrol. The captain looked at his pocket watch quickly then snapped it shut as the last of the mounted privates passed by him with a salute. He watched the group trot up the lane as he walked toward the house.

Bordon, though tired, wished he was in the saddle tonight. Instead, a pile of paperwork, which he was now behind on, awaited him on the desk in his room. He knew he'd have to fight to keep his eyes open while working on it. The officer owed a report to the colonel, which he had run down to the deadline. Hugh knew that was the first thing to start on tonight.

The weary redcoat walked up the steps into the back of the house. He heard low voices in the preparation kitchen. The officer looked in to see Mrs. Leyanova and the house servant Myriam, speaking with Jarvis, one of the field slaves. The trio clammed up when they saw the dragoon commander peering into room.

"Ginseng, please," he requested, knowing he'd need a stimulant to keep him awake a couple of more hours.

"I'll send up a tea," Mrs. Leyanova answered in a short, irritated voice.

Myriam, the pretty young quadroon maid, curtseyed to the handsome captain. "Would you like honey and ginger in it….for the taste?" the servant asked nervously.

"Yes, thank you," Hugh answered. He made his way slowly toward the stairway then called back over his shoulder to the women in the kitchen as he walked.

"And if I suspect that you've poisoned it," he warned, "I'll make Miss Burwell drink it!"

"No sir," Myriam replied in a shout.

As Bordon laid his hand on the banister, he heard Mrs. Leyanova say something in her native Russian tongue. He sighed to himself, assuming she'd probably just cursed him _and_ his request. Too tired to confront her, he made his way up the stair way to the second floor, where his quarters were.

He stopped at the landing and looked up and down the hallway, which was quiet. The alcove sitting area at the end of the hall was empty. Captain Bordon had thought that someone would be sitting there, ready to comfort the grieving mistress, her room next to that area.

The officer thought it odd that no one was there, but quickly brushed it off, assuming that someone must be sitting with her in the bedroom. The redcoat padded softly down the hall, passing his own room. When he reached the alcove, he leaned over a chair and looked out over the lawn.

It was near sunset, and he noticed fires being lit in the tent area. His eyes moved across the yard to where the Burwell servants and slaves scurried from one outbuilding to the next, closing things up for the night.

The captain turned back to head to his room, but something stopped him again. It was_ too_ quiet, which bothered him. He thought he'd at least hear sobbing and subdued words of comfort coming from Miss Burwell's room, but heard nothing.

When last he saw her this afternoon, the teenage girl was distraught and lost after receiving the news. He stepped close to her door hoping to hear something. After a few seconds, he leaned in, putting his ear to her door, listening closely.

He was met with a heavy silence. Bordon was troubled now, thinking the worst: that her grieving had driven her to hopelessness. And that in her low spirits, that she might have hurt herself. The officer cursed the house staff under his breath for not having someone sit with her.

Captain Bordon rapped quietly on the door. When there was no answer, he knocked again and called softly through the door. The young lady still did not respond so he turned the door knob, warning her that he was coming in.

The dragoon entered her room and immediately saw the girl lying across her bed, still and silent. A grimace of pain and anguish marred her pretty face. He swallowed hard and closed his eyes. _My God, she's done it,_ he thought to himself_, she's taken her own life. _

Staring at her lifeless form in disbelief, he walked quietly over to the bed. He wasn't sure how even to inform Colonel Tavington that their prized prisoner had killed herself.

Now next to the bed, he stood over her for a moment, feeling badly for himself and helpless that he couldn't have done more for the young woman. He noticed that she clutched a miniature portrait of her brother in her hand. Hugh reached down to take it from her hands, planning to move them to cross over her body in a peaceful position of death.

When the officer touched her hand, it was warm—hot, in fact. Her skin still felt warmed from the Carolina heat. The man leaned over her and noticed low, relaxed breathing. He sighed and closed his eyes in relief as he straightened his body back up.

"She's asleep," he murmured, feeling stupid. Then he cursed himself for letting worry make him panic so. Relieved that she was fine, he stood over her, studying her sleeping form. He noticed her face, contorted in grief, her cheeks red and tear streaked. "Poor girl," he said low to himself, knowing she cried herself to sleep.

The officer then looked about the room. The window was wide open, and two candles were burning. The man saw paper and pen on the desk, one of the candles blazing there.

Hugh Bordon looked at the other side of the room and saw a light blanket strewn over a chair. He walked softly over there to retrieve it, stepping quietly so as not to wake the girl. The man took the coverlet in his hands, shaking it out lightly, then draped it softly over Miss Burwell's body as she lay atop her bedspread.

Captain Bordon looked down at the exhausted girl, knowing grief himself. The girl had lost her mother, newborn sister, and now her brother in the short span of a year. Her father was miles away, unable to comfort the girl. Hugh had felt the same when his pregnant wife and young son passed within days of one another. He knew the hopelessness and despair at the death of loved ones, and how one's well ordered world could change in a small measure of time. The dragoon officer, not without his compassion, truly felt sorry for Miss Burwell, and knew that he could do nothing to help her through this.

The dragoon hoped that she would have a slumber undisturbed by nightmares and dreams of the dead. Bordon recalled how sleep had been a welcome reprieve for him in his own grief. From his own experience, he knew that many sleepless nights lay ahead for her.

The captain walked toward the door, then stopped. Being the good intelligence officer that he was, he walked silently to the desk, pausing to read what was there. A handful of blank sheets of paper, and a letter, barely started, lay on top.

"_Dearest Father,_

_I know I shall ramble as I write this, for my heart is filled with sorrow and my eyes flooded with tears. _

_Stephen is gone now. The farm seized. The enemy living here. Captivity. I can't begin to speak of the depth of my despair._

_Oh, Papa, what am I to do?"_

No useable information, just a forlorn note, unfinished. Bordon put the quill back in the inkwell and extinguished the candle on the desk. Then he walked to the door, where he blew out the candle burning in the wall sconce next to the door frame.

Captain Bordon pulled the door open then stopped. The officer turned back to look at the grieving, sleeping girl. Hugh sighed then twisted his frame back forward. The redcoat then left the room, having pressing administrative duties awaiting him in his quarters to attend to, leaving the girl alone in sleep and grief.


	16. Chapter 15: From Caring To Cold

**4/24/12: Hi all. I'm working diligently on the next chapter (16). I have a fun (well, I hope its fun!) poll started over on my profile page. Which "Bordon" do you like best? Take it if you dare...ha ha!**

**Thanks again for reading!**

**JScorpio**

Chapter 15 From Caring To Cold

"Miss Burwell," Captain Hugh Bordon said softly after he had knocked on the girl's bedroom door. He stood for a time, listening for her voice.

It was mid morning the day after the news of Private Steven Burwell's death had arrived. The dragoon second in command had been up three hours already, having had breakfast and a short ride around the perimeter of the plantation in which he spoke with the men on picket and vedette duty. During his brief journey about the farm, the officer saw the plantation bustling with activity this morning with soldiers attending to their duties and slaves and servants busily working at their chores. Visibly and expectedly absent was Betsy Burwell, who was understandably alone in her room mourning the death of her brother.

And now the captain stood outside her chamber door. "Miss Burwell," he called again through the door.

Once again met with silence, the officer spoke a bit louder now. "I'm coming in," he warned, still hoping to hear her answer him.

After yet another moment of silence, he turned the know and entered slowly in case he had to back out quickly. Bordon stopped at the doorway just barely inside the room. From there he spied the girl, still asleep on her bed just as she was when he'd found her last night.

He said her name again, but the young woman slept on soundly. The officer knew that rest for the grieving girl was the best thing for her, yet the news he had couldn't wait.

The cavalry commander stepped quietly and reluctantly toward the girl's bed. He reached out and touched her should lightly, only enough to gently shake her.

"Miss," he coaxed, his rich voice low and apologetic.

The young lady's eyes fluttered open as she twisted her body lazily on the bed. A blur of red and green slowly came into focus as her sleepy eyes awakened.

She gasped when she realized that a red coat was standing over her bed. Betsy jerked her body up straight to a sitting position. "What is it?" she queried, startled to have an enemy officer standing in her bedchamber.

How long has he been here, she wondered to herself. Was he watching me?

"Sorry to disturb your sleep," Hugh apologized. "Your brother has arrived."

The dragoon officer has dealt with death and its aftermath for so many years. To keep the girl's trust, he was mindful to refer to Steven Burwell's dead body as something more than a corpse. Instead he kept it respectful, delicately referring to him—who he was in life. Even dead, to this young lady, he was still a beloved sibling.

Betsy snapped out of her sleepy haze, remembering after a night of slumber, that her brother had died. The girl sighed, looking down. She gazed at the miniature portrait of Steven, which she still held. The young lady had slept with it clutched tightly in her hands the whole night.

"Oh, yes," she answered the officer quietly; forlornly. "Thank you."

Hugh Bordon turned to go, knowing the girl needed to get up and gather her thoughts alone.

"Captain."

The man stopped as he heard the young woman call after him. He turned back to look at her and answered, "Yes?"

"Is there a chaplain amongst your men," she asked simply.

"No. Our unit doesn't have one," Bordon informed. "The infantry's chaplain died of fever weeks ago and they've yet to replace him."

"Oh," said Betsy in a lost voice. After a moment of hesitation, she spoke again. "Could I trouble you to send someone to the village to fetch Reverend Reed?"

"No trouble at all, Miss," Bordon assured. "Consider it done."

With that the officer turned and disappeared through the door quickly. He closed it behind him to preserve the girl's privacy.

Betsy Burwell pulled the blanket back and slowly climbed out of bed. She walked aimlessly about the room, finding herself in front of the armoire. She pulled a simple, black frock from it—a dress she seldom wore. The girl dawned it fast, needing no help with it.

As Miss Burwell buttoned the last button, she looked up and caught a glimpse of herself in the full length mirror across the room. She walked haltingly toward the looking glass. Once there, she touched the reflection, as if she needed to make sure she wasn't seeing a ghost or some shadow from the past. Her finger tips slid across the cold, smooth surface of the mirror. As she stared at her reflection, she recalled that this was the same dress she'd worn when her mother died, one year ago.

The memory of it loosed a floodgate of sorrow. Her pretty face contorted as she began to cry, still staring at herself in the mirror. Unable to look at herself in mourning clothes anymore, she turned her back on the mirror and walked to the wall. The girl leaned forward, folding her arms on the wall and buried her face in them, quietly sobbing in the loneliness of her room.

/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/

Captain Bordon looked up at the cloudy sky, glad for the reprieve from the bright Carolina sun. The summer heat remained, yet the light breeze seemed to make it more bearable today. Hugh marveled at the quiet now on the estate in the middle of the day, that calm usually only found at night.

All of the Burwell servants and slaves had ceased their work and assembled at the family cemetery for Private Steven Burwell's burial. The British had given permission for visitors to come onto the plantation. Among the mourners were Mr. and Mrs. Drandly, Ethan's parents, come to mourn their son's best friend. Betsy's best friend, the soon to be married Hannah Lansing, had come to be with Miss Burwell and spend the day with her.

The family, servants and friends stood gathered around Steven's grave, lovingly dug by the farm's staff, near his mother, Katy Burwell, and his other siblings gone to death before him.

The male servants and slaves were sullen and quiet, as the females of the farm sobbed and sniffled. Betsy stood quietly, dabbing at her eyes with her handkerchief, having cried hard already in the privacy of her room. She closed her eyes and let out a deep breath, wishing that her father was there with them.

Yards away, across the lawn, the dragoons stood silently at a respectful distance. They had ceased their duties and gathered quietly to watch the scene at the orders of Captain Bordon. Colonel Tavington was not among them. To him it was just the burial of another rebel traitor. Indeed he took advantage of the quiet time to attend to paperwork in his office, happy to have a bit of time with no distraction.

Soon, Reverend Reed closed his bible and the crowd of mourners moved toward the house for a meal. Across the yard, the cavalrymen assembled there dispersed as well, moving quickly back to their duties. Captain Bordon was left alone, looking across the green to the cemetery. He watched Miss Burwell, who stood alone as well, quietly collecting her thoughts for a few moments at the graves of her family. Hugh felt a pain in his own heart, having known grief as well. The officer recollected doing the same thing: standing alone at the graves of his pregnant wife and young son on the day they were buried, just two short years ago.

/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/

Captain James Wilkins stood quietly holding the lantern up for Captain Bordon to see as he wrote. Jim watched the dragoon second in command marking this spot on a partially unfolded map and making notes about the place in his field diary for reference. A small detachment of cavalry stood by them, everyone still mounted on their horses, at the beginning of the lane leading up to the Drakespar plantation, the late John Selton's elaborate farm.

Only an hour after Steven Burwell's funeral, Wilkins had ridden up looking for Bordon with discharge papers from the Carolina Loyalist Militia in hand. James had been recruited by the dragoon officer a few weeks ago for his knowledge of the area. He was briefly introduced to and approved of by Colonel Tavington at that time in a camp—in a hospital tent to be exact. Tavington and Bordon were questioning an ailing private, the lone survivor of a vicious attack by one rebel, as the young soldier told them from his bed, on a detachment of redcoats headed to Winnsboro with a load of wounded. Wilkins was unable to join the Green Dragoons at that time, finishing up his militia enlistment.

Now, Wilkins was here, ready to join the elite cavalry unit and eager to please and make an impression on the superior officers. Bordon wasted no time taking advantage of Jim's wealth of knowledge of the area. That night, they left the Burwell farm on an intelligence mission, "cold" calling places on a list that Wilkins provided for possible rebel activity. Hugh was happy to be getting some new intelligence—no matter how random the information.

The small group of dragoons sat silently atop their horses as their commander finished jotting his notes. The captain was anxious to question the occupants of this house, hoping for some good, solid intelligence leads. Captain Wilkins had told him that Mrs. Selton was rumored to be a rebel sympathizer, and that her plantation was a social gathering spot for rebels. The revelation by James that Mrs. Selton's brother-in-law was a rebel militia leader was even more enticing. That man, Colonel Ben Martin, was on the redcoats' list as most desirable for capture or kill—that man and his band of rabble caused a lot of trouble for the British.

Wilkins extinguished the lantern, letting the moonlight lead the band of redcoats up the tree lined lane to the main house. Bordon, like Tavington, favored the element of surprise, both men liking to raid at night. Rebels, tired after a day of hard work and Carolina heat, ready to sleep or already slumbering, put up less of a fight. Something about the sleep made jaws slack, useable intelligence sometimes rolling off those tired, loosened tongues and truth tumbling out of somnolent minds.

Bordon held up his arm to call a halt. He looked up at the house and noticed the faint glint of candle light in two windows: one upstairs and one downstairs near the front door. The drowsy residents had obviously heard the horses, rousing them out of bed.

Next, the officer doled out orders. He instructed Wilkins to accompany him to the house, dispatched some men to search the plantation grounds, took three more to search the house while he questioned the inhabitants, and ordered two to stand guard. As both captains dismounted, the men directed to search the grounds trotted off quickly on horseback. James stayed silent, dutifully following Hugh up the steps to the door.

As he walked, Jim tried to recall the last time he'd seen Charlotte Putnam Selton. It was at Charles Town a year ago, he remembered. And though in her early thirties now and widowed, she was still dazzling. The wealthy widow was sought after by many men—desiring her beauty and money. Her husband, John Selton, had drowned 4 years ago, and the woman still hadn't taken up steadily with any man, though she had entranced many. James Wilkins wondered if the ethereal blonde woman would bowl Captain Bordon and the other redcoats over, pretty as she was.

Captain Wilkins looked on as his commander pounded heavily on the front door. "Open up!" Bordon shouted through the door.

The door opened partly to reveal the face of a petite servant. The young maid's eyes widened at the sight of the two officers. "Mr. Wilkins?" she asked incredulously.

"Yes," James answered.

Hugh Bordon smiled, feeling a sort of triumph inside. He remembered how skeptical Colonel Tavington had been of the recruitment of Captain Wilkins. But this short intelligence gathering mission that the men had been on was paying off. The dragoons' second in command was finding out just how many people this man knew, providing fresh intelligence and new contacts. Captain Bordon was now pleasantly surprised that it wasn't just the local society that knew him—even their servants recognized him. Hugh had learned in his own life of privilege that servants could be a wealth of information, having to live and work close to their employers, often making them privy to intimate situations.

Bordon thrust his hand onto the door and pushed it open, scooting the maid back into the foyer. The officers and the privates assigned to search the house strode purposefully through the doorway. The girl looked on helplessly as the privates, one ascending the stairway and the other moving down the hall, invaded the home.

"It's Captain Wilkins now," Hugh said as they stepped forward.

"Where are they going?" she asked in confusion, her eyes following the dragoon privates as they disappeared from the foyer.

The two officers didn't answer her query. Instead, they herded the servant into the parlor.

"I'm Captain Bordon of His Majesty's Green Dragoons," he informed. "We need to speak with Mrs. Selton."

"She's not here," the girl answered, her fingers nervously toying with the material of her robe.

"Where is she," Bordon inquired.

"She went to her brother's house to help his wife with the new baby," the house servant replied.

"And where is that?" asked Wilkins.

"Georgetown."

"Where are all the servants," Captain Bordon queried, noting how quiet the house was and the lack of others in the house.

"The mistress took most of the household staff with her," the girl stated. "It's only me and Matthew, the butler, and the field slaves."

Both officers were silent as they looked the girl over. She cast her eyes downward, both shy and embarrassed that the two men's eyes were wandering over her.

Hugh thought the girl to be possibly 22 years old. The servant's body, though petite, had round curves that the thin material of her robe scarcely covered. Her dark wavy brown hair fell loosely behind her shoulders, showing off a soft and pretty face that held a vulnerable countenance. Bordon knew that this was the type of woman that could be easily intimidated—one that could reveal information under threat.

"Well then you will have to help us," Bordon advised.

"How can I aid you gentlemen?" she asked timidly, fearfully.

"Answer our questions truthfully," Wilkins said.

The girl began to wring her hands, obviously feeling frightened. Captain Bordon watched her actions closely. He had experienced and noted that hand wringing not only meant nerves, but sometimes was a sign of something troubling the individual—or something being hidden. The intelligence officer knew that the servant could be manipulated and would play right into their hands.

Wilkins, after looking at the girl, recollected seeing her a few times in the company of Mrs. Selton. He assumed that she was a servant who had close ties to the plantation mistress and had certainly been exposed to certain situations and different people that Charlotte kept company with.

James leaned close to his commander, whispering that he knew this maid to be one of the servants closest to Mrs. Selton. Hugh raised his eyebrows and nodded. He knew the next best thing to getting information from a person in question would be to obtain it from a close servant.

The two officers, who towered over the attractive little maid, step forward, making the girl back up. She soon found herself out of space and fell backwards onto the divan. She crossed her arms in front of herself, hugging her body in fear as she looked up at the two dragoons.

"What is your name, miss?" Wilkins inquired as he retrieved a small notebook from his jacket coat.

She hesitated not wanting to tell them. Reason kicked in quickly, telling her that they could easily find her name out from a number of other sources. Not wanting to anger them, she answered, "Martha Durant." The young woman watched the tall Wilkins as he scrawled her name quickly.

"Your mistress has been entertaining known rebels here," Bordon charged.

"That is no secret," the girl countered meekly. "She entertains just as many loyalists. The mistress remains neutral."

"Does she now?" Captain Bordon taunted. Beginning by breaking down the subject was one of the methods he used in his intelligence interrogations.

Hugh took another step closer to where the girl sat. He looked condescendingly down at the girl. "We have heard that she is a rebel sympathizer. She certainly has the resources here to aid them."

"She is not a rebel sympathizer," Miss Durant disagreed. "She has ceased most of her entertaining of _any_ kind. The mistress can't afford it since you redcoats seized her house in Charles Town and her late husband's business there."

The maid rose to her feet, becoming a bit defensive. "As far as resources here, Mrs. Selton has just enough here on this farm for all of us with barely little to sell at market for some small profit!"

Hugh crossed his arms in front of his chest and gave the girl a scathing look. He had heard too much to the contrary about Charlotte Selton from Wilkins. Bordon didn't believe the girl.

"Are you certain of that," asked Bordon, his voice implying clearly that he disbelieved her.

"Yes, I work here and see everything," Martha the maid said. She drew a breath in quickly, realizing what she'd just said. Still she held out naïve hope that she hadn't just damned herself.

"You see everything?" Bordon asked, repeating her very words. He looked at Wilkins, who easily stood a good six inches taller than him. The two officers exchanges sly looks.

"Perhaps you could share with us some of the things you've seen," Wilkins said.

"Well…uh…I didn't mean that I see _everything_," she back peddled nervously.

"Anything you could tell us would be sufficient," James advised.

"Well, there's nothing unusual," Martha lied. "Just what goes on in running this plantation every day."

"Why don't you tell us about the gatherings that Mrs. Selton has held here," Wilkins coaxed.

"I don't know anything about them," the pretty servant fibbed. "I just help Mrs. Selton—"

"At ease, Captain," Bordon ordered authoritatively. "I'll question Miss Durant alone."

With that, he took hold of the maid's upper arm firmly and moved her toward the dining room.

Hugh knew that Wilkins, having only been an active dragoon for two days, hadn't developed the stomach for 'rough' interrogations yet; he still maintained too much of his gentlemanly demeanor. The man needed time to find the balance between gentility and forcefulness.

Wilkins didn't pretend not to know the reputation for roughness within the Green Dragoons. It wasn't particularly his style being a Carolina country gentleman, but he already liked the prestige of belonging to the elite cavalry unit. And for now, he was more than willing to let the veterans like Bordon take care of the methods of harsh persuasion.

"No…wait…I…um…" the girl stammered in fear as the brawny captain pulled her toward the dining room. She didn't want to be alone with the commander and immediately knew her situation wasn't good.

Bordon said nothing as he now practically dragged the girl behind him. The maid was resisting now, trying to pull from his grip. Hugh smiled at this, knowing he had the girl scared already. He hoped that the fright would be enough to loosen her tongue.

Jim Wilkins followed behind them dutifully. When they were in the dining room, he closed the double pocket doors behind them.

Captain Bordon gave the girl a sharp jerk as he let go, to intimidate her a bit further. He had to show that he meant business.

The dragoon second in command looked hard at her, which made her cower. "Now, Miss Durant. You are going to tell me who attended Mrs. Selton's functions here, especially the rebels."

"I ….I…don't know them," she stuttered as she backed away from the dragoon. "I don't know their names."

"You knew Captain Wilkins' name," Hugh pointed out, reminding her that she did indeed know some of the locals.

Bordon sighed, keeping his temper under control. But the officer was tired from two days of hard riding. They had covered miles of land in that time and talked to a good number of sources. However it was always the same with the people they interrogated: they always denied things at first, wanting to put up some kind of fight. And tonight, he was particularly weary of it.

The tired officer, quickly losing his patience, took it out on the young woman. He grabbed the maid with both hands at her elbows, hard enough to bruise her. The officer pushed her back into the wall, pinioning her there with her back against it. She saw the flash of anger in his blue eyes.

"Now girl," he seethed, his voice low in warning, "I'll ask you only once more the names of the rebels that Mrs. Selton associates with."

"I…I don't know their names," the girl cracked, beginning to sob. She didn't want to implicate her mistress and employer, thus destroying Mrs. Selton's trust in her. Miss Durant also needed the wages of this job to help her parents out.

Hugh Bordon yanked the maid away from the wall, pushing her toward the large dining table. The officer shoved her roughly down onto the table, bending her forward over it. She fought, trying to push up from it, but his strong arm over her back held her down.

Unable to push her trunk up from the table, she began to beg. Martha knew what was coming.

"NO! PLEASE! Don't do this!", she cried.

The pretty little servant, her bottom against the officer's groin, unintentionally moved against him with her struggle. This served to arouse Bordon not by choice of his own.

The man was irritated from dealing with the rebels for the last two days and had made up his mind not to take the time to coax answers from this girl. He would draw information from her without having to fish for it.

"Captain please! I beg you not to!"

Bordon chose not to answer the maid's pleas. Still holding her down with one arm, he threw the young woman's skirt up, exposing her bare bottom. Then he pushed his breeches down enough to free his member, semi hard now. He stroked himself a couple of times, making the erection hard.

The officer forced his hardness into the girl, making her cry out. Her face against the table, she wept as he slammed himself into her, her teardrops creating little wet circles on the crisp white table cloth.

Moving quickly, the captain plunged himself hard in and out of the petite little servant, who had given up begging him to stop. She bore his violation with her tears. The large girth of his manhood stretched the girl out, making Miss Durant silently beg for it to end soon.

Captain Bordon climaxed after another moment, groaning as he came. He leaned forward, his palms flat on the tabletop as he caught his breath. When he calmed a bit, he pulled himself out of the girl, wiping himself off with the long table cloth that hung nearly to the floor. The officer pulled his trousers back up then dragged the girl, still sobbing, up from the table.

Hugh hauled the girl away from the dining table then pressed her against the wall again, issuing a stern warning to her. "Now, Miss Durant, you _will_ tell me the names of the rebels that Mrs. Selton keeps company with. If you don't, then I will let all my men have a turn with you."

The maid, angry at the redcoat for violating her, said nothing. In reality, she was still so stunned and hurt over what just happened that she couldn't even recall the names of any of the rebels that had visited her employer. Her head felt clouded, and if it was spinning.

Captain Bordon took the girl's silence for his answer. "Very well, then." The officer, though finding a quick satisfaction of urges with the servant, chose not to fool about trying to draw and answer out of her.

He stomped to the doors and pushed them open slightly. "Captain Wilkins," the dragoon adjutant called from the room, "summon the men. Feed her to the wolves!"

Wilkins knew what his commander referred to. He turned and headed toward the front door.

The girl could hear the tall officer's boots stomping away, ready to gather the men. Not wishing to suffer through more rape and humiliation, the girl spoke up.

"Captain, no! Please," she cried. "I remember one of them!"

"Stand down, Captain," Bordon said to Wilkins as he closed the door again. He smiled inwardly, pleased that the girl was broken, now wanting to reveal information.

Hugh moved close to the girl again. He looked down at her, raising his eyebrows. "Yes?"

"Colonel Martin!" she blurted out, the only name that she could remember after this trauma. "She keeps company with Colonel Martin."

"The militia leader?" the captain confirmed.

"Yes."

"Thank you, Miss Durant." The officer turned on his heel and marched out of the room.

Martha the maid sank down to her knees and sobbed. She felt so much sorrow and disappointment in herself for revealing details about her employer in order to save herself from more pain.

Outside, the dragoons gathered and mounted their horses. They rode away toward the nearest town, the village of Wakefield, hoping to find some vacant rooms at the inn. Bordon was quiet, preferring to discuss the findings of their raid later.

As they rode in silence, Captain Bordon thought about his actions at the Selton plantation. He didn't like to force himself on women, but conceded that that form of intimidation did produce results. Hugh reminded himself that it was just duty—an ugly part of duty, and that the end result justified the means of obtaining it. With that he shook his head, hating to admit that he was beginning to think like, and becoming more like Colonel Tavington.


	17. Chapter 16: Betrayal Or Survival?

Chapter 16 Betrayal Or Survival?

Hugh Bordon was relieved to see the Burwell house finally come into view after so many days in the saddle. His small detachment, including the new recruit Captain Wilkins, had ridden through so many towns and interviewed so many people and gained so much intelligence in three days, that the dragoon second in command felt his mind too full to hold another ounce of information.

Last night, after leaving Drakespar, the Selton plantation, they rode into Wakefield, the nearest village. It was midnight and they had hoped to find some rooms in the inn there, but found them all full. The dragoons found a glade not far from Wakefield, off the road to afford protection and covered by the full forest canopy above them. The men spread out their bedrolls, sans tents, for some rest.

The group of ten had only had a couple of hours of sleep when their vedette heard horses and wagons coming on the road. Riding to survey the situation, the private was alarmed to find an advance guard of uniformed rebels approaching.

Bordon and the men broke camp quickly and retreated further into the woods, smart enough to know that his small detachment was no match for a large force of rebels. They watched sleepily from where they hid as the rebel convoy passed, which turned out to be massive. All the dragoons could do was watch quietly from the shadows as so many wagons full of supplies, small herds of livestock, and companies of yankee soldiers passed by. The captain wished he had the men to attack as they could always use livestock, wagons, and other supplies. The officer also would have loved the chance to disable the colonials with confiscation of some of the valuables.

As it turned out, because of darkness and the amount of wagons and animals, the sheer size of this column of rebels moved slow and as a result, took hours to pass by the dragoons' hiding place. The detachment had to wait it out well into this morning before they could move. The men were hungry as a fire couldn't be made lest it give them away to the passing rebels.

Finally, late this morning, they were able to safely move out. By that time the Carolina heat was stifling and the sun hot and high in the sky. The men were tired and hungry after being at the mercy of the long rebel convoy, but glad to be riding again. They set their sights on home and rode hard through the countryside to get there.

The small bunch of cavalrymen were relieved as their horses trotted onto the Burwell farm. As Captain Bordon looked around the lawn, he was happy to see that the plantation was functioning as normal after the funeral days ago of Steven Burwell. Gazing at the house, his eyes looked up to the second story window that was Miss Burwell's room as they rode past. He hadn't seen her working outside with the servants so he thought maybe he'd catch a glimpse of her up there. The officer had wondered how the poor girl had fared since burying her brother. He was glad to see the curtains parted and window open, making him believe that she hadn't holed herself up in her room, realizing that after death, life _does_ go on.

/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/

Betsy sat quietly in the farm office, which was now Colonel Tavington's domain. She had been summoned there to speak with the dragoon leader, who finished signing some papers as she sat nervously in the chair in front of his desk. Her eyes drifted to the window, where she caught sight of Captain Bordon's detachment riding up the lane.

The girl felt some relief to see the captain returning as things seemed to run better and more calmly with him around; Tavington stirred up so much fear around the place, putting everyone's nerves on edge. Indeed, the girl wished that the dragoon second in command was sitting across from her now. Miss Burwell conversed more easily with him than she did with his superior. She had already put her hand on her own shaking knee twice to steady the thing in the short time she'd been in Tavington's office, leery to be alone with this man.

Colonel Tavington broke the silence. "Miss Burwell, what are these?" He held up some papers in his hand, familiar in format to the girl.

"You've seen them before," she responded. "You found their hiding place weeks ago."

"What are they?" he demanded, his tone commanding, ordering her to answer.

"Our farm invoices and receipts," answered Betsy . The girl was confused as to why he was asking her what they were, knowing that he knew damned well what he was holding.

Tavington said nothing, but instead began to rip the papers up. Betsy's eyes widened in disbelief.

"Don't!," she exclaimed, rising from her seat. She reached across the desk trying to grab them from the colonel's hands as he continued tearing the paper.

"Stop it! We _need_ those!"

The redcoat officer took the rest of the invoices and threw them into the fireplace, where they burst into flame causing a small explosion of flying sparks.

Her jaw dropped at the dragoon's blatant actions. She raced around the desk as if she could save the already burning bills from the fire, but was pushed back by Tavington's large hand, shoved back into her seat.

"We need those to be reimbursed when the war ends!" she protested, not understanding his actions.

Tavington sneered down at the girl. "And how is a rebel government with no money—"

"There is _some_!" she shot back.

"Some that is borrowed from other nations," the British officer asserted. "How is a newly formed, cash poor government going to have the funds to reimburse your father?"

She said nothing as she sank back into the chair, feeling helpless. The girl was too stunned to try to answer.

Tavington went on. "They won't have the money. So, all that you've supplied to the rebels up to now, you can write off as a loss."

Betsy hated his righteous tone. The stupor wore off and anger began to rise in the girl. "You're a fool!," she said. "You've just burned evidence that you could have used to implicate my father as a traitor."

The cavalry leader smiled. He secretly held a few of the invoices in his records, ready to turn over to his government at the end of the war, or whenever Harry Burwell was captured. The men held back enough of them to help hang the rebel leader.

"You stupid little girl!," Tavington scolded. "Your father leads an army of rebels. That is evidence enough of his treachery!"

Colonel Tavington became quiet and calm as he sat back in his chair. The sudden change in his demeanor sent a chill through Betsy. His abrupt coolness made her want to run from the room.

"In the few days since we have moved in here," Tavington began, as if speaking to her on an equal, professional basis, "we have used some of the resources at hand. And, I gave Colonel Blake's infantry some salted pork to take with them—"

"I was glad to see them go," she interrupted, incensed at the man. "I hope they took their whores with them as well!" True to Captain Bordon's promise, he had made the camp followers set their tents up out of view of the house, warning the trollops not to go near it, so Betsy hadn't seen any of those strumpets about lately. Indeed she hoped they had gone with the regiment.

"Yes. I heard of your dismay that the doxies had set up shop here," the colonel replied, nearly taunting the girl again. "And to answer your question: no—only half went away with the infantry. I requested that some of the women stay behind….for the sake of the dragoons."

Betsy squirmed, not wanting to spend another moment in this man's presence. "Please colonel," she asked meekly, "may I go? I'm needed—"

"Not just yet, Miss Burwell," the colonel forbade. "This discussion isn't over yet."

"Oh?" the young woman swallowed, forcing herself to sit back in her chair.

"From now on," began Tavington, "we, the dragoons, will issue invoices as seen fit for what is used here."

Betsy looked cautiously at the man. She was glad that some records would be kept, even if by the British. The girl desired some kind of order in the farm's books.

"The rebel government won't want to pay you," she warned in a quiet voice.

"Yes, I surmised as much," Tavington informed. "So, the invoices will be paid by the British government. His benevolent Majesty King George always pays his debts."

"The king won't want to pay a traitor," she argued. "That _is_ what you called my father, isn't it?"

"Yes," the colonel agreed. "He is a turncoat and His Majesty won't pay him—but he _will_ pay his daughter. After all, you are housing the king's soldiers. King George will see you as a good and loyal subject, doing your duty."

"I don't understand," the girl said, more confused than ever. She studied Colonel Tavington's icy blue eyes, suspecting that he was hiding something—hatching some plot.

"Simple," answered Tavington. "Your father is absent; busy in his seditious activities. But you, as a good and loyal subject of His Majesty, will sign them instead."

"I don't sign my father's papers," she informed. Indeed Betsy wasn't in the habit of affixing her father's name to documents. The senior staff members of the plantation did that when Harry was away, entrusted by him to do such.

"No?" the dragoon leader questioned, his eye brows lifting. "Well, you will now, beginning with this one." The redcoat officer pushed the paper across the desk to the young lady.

The girl picked up the bill and quickly read through it. She stopped at the bottom, reading it more slowly a second time. She looked at the words yet a third time, studying them intently as if they may change shape. There was a blank line for her signature, and transcribed below, it read: "Miss Betsy Burwell, ever faithful subject of the Crown."

She stared in confusion as the officer handed her two more copies of the same bill. The girl looked them over then realized something odd. "Father usually only has two copies," she pointed out, "one for our records and one to send."

A sinister grin spread slowly across the colonel's lips. "The extra copy is for your father to peruse," he announced. "After you sign them, I'll make sure that he receives them. I'm sure he is interested in how his business fares in his absence."

A frown clouded Miss Burwell's pretty face. Her lips parted to say something, but she faltered instead, unsure what to say.

Tavington continued. "I'm sure your father will want to see the fine job you are doing managing the plantation, and equally as anxious to see the business decisions you are making—especially the wise choice to bill the British government for goods and services. He will see that you've become a loyal citizen of the Crown."

Betsy pulled back in horror. The young woman's mind whirled in circles at the implications of her signing those invoices. Not only would her father think that she had switched sides, but when word of her signing British invoices made its way around, the locals would think the same of her. It would also threaten post war business for the farm, as well, with rebel customers remembering that the Burwell's had done business with the Crown. Lastly, it would damage Harry's credibility as a colonial leader in his men's eyes and his superior's when the gossip of his plantation supplying His Majesty's army all the while that he is leading the rebels. They would question his loyalty to the cause.

"I can't sign those!" Betsy recoiled as she protested.

"You WILL sign these," Tavington ordered. He knew that with this plan, that only her original signature would do, and it had to look willing, not forced.

"I won't," she shouted, jumping to her feet, slamming the invoices down on the cavalry commander's desk.

The colonel stayed calm, slowly rising to his feet. His lean figure seemed to tower over her. Looking down at her from where he stood, he advised, "You _will_ sign them…..or else!"

The threat was enough to make Betsy leave the chair and move swiftly to the door. She wasn't going to stick around to find out what the dragoon officer had in mind.

Once at the door, she unlocked it and slipped through, only to be met by the large and imposing Private Tuller, who stepped forward, making the girl slink back inside. The disappointed girl watched the private pull the door shut, leaving her alone with the colonel inside the office.

Betsy reluctantly turned about, staying close to the door as she looked at Colonel Tavington. Her jaw dropped and her emerald eyes rounded in terror. The redcoat commander held his riding crop in his hand and was starting to move out from behind the desk toward her.

"No," she pleaded in a whisper, shaking her head in disbelief and beginning to tremble. The dragoon leader's intentions were perfectly clear. "Please. Don't!"

/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/

Never had Hugh Bordon been so glad to ride into a stinky stable on a hot day. He was the last in, having stopped while still on his horse to exchange a few words with Lieutenant Wentworth. By the time he made it into the barn, all the stable hands and slaves were busy with the other men's horses. The captain quickly dismounted and untacked his own mount faster than he ever had before. The officer was anxious to get in, make his report to Colonel Tavington then be through with his duty and retire to bed for a few hours.

The redcoat officer strode up the path between the stable and main house wanting a hot bath and his bed. He rubbed his temples for his head was pounding. As the captain walked along, he heard what sounded like shouting coming from the north wing of the house. As he got closer, it was apparent that a female was screaming. Alarmed, he quickened his pace, as fear and dread took hold, wondering what was happening.

"No! Please!"

Finally, as he mounted the steps into the house, he recognized the shrieks as belonging to Miss Burwell. The captain rolled his eyes and heaved a sullen sigh as he trotted along, unable to imagine what could be happening.

"Bloody Hell! What now?" he swore to himself as he paced along.

Once in the house, he identified the ruckus as coming from Colonel Tavington's office, and his commander's shouts now mixed with those of the young girl's. Hugh entered the main hallway then quickly turned to his left, racing down the corridor toward the fracas.

Ahead of him, Bordon saw the maid Pansy and Mr. Hantz arguing with Private Tuller. The two servants were trying to get into the office, but the hulking dragoon private barred their way.

"What's this?" asked the captain as he arrived at the doorway.

"Your leader is hurting her!" Hantz drawled in his German accent, still trying to get at the door. Pansy held onto his arm, afraid that the large private would slug him. Miss Burwell's screams had brought them to the door.

"The colonel wanted to speak with Miss Burwell," Private Tuller informed.

"It doesn't _sound_ as if they are speaking!" Bordon exclaimed, agitated that he was greeted by this. The tired and dirty officer had hopes of peace and quiet upon his return. The captain reached for the door but was blocked by Tuller.

"Sorry sir. Colonel Tavington's orders." The large private crossed his arms in front of his chest, standing his ground enforcing the commander's orders.

"Stand down, Tuller," Captain Bordon barked, irritated.

"Can't, sir."

"You dare ignore the directions of an officer?," the second in command snarled. "Let me in! That's not a request—it's an order!"

"You're responsibility, sir?" the private queried, yet making it plain that he didn't want to be in trouble with the colonel.

"Yes! I'm responsible!"

"Very well, sir," Tuller said, opening the door for the captain.

Hugh Bordon entered the officer to find the appalling sight of Colonel Tavington beating Miss Burwell. The captain gasped as he hesitated for an instant, staring at the two of them.

The girl was pleading for him to stop. The colonel held her slender body with one arm hard against the wall as his other arm struck her with his riding crop. The young lady writhed and wriggled in his grasp as best she could, trying to dodge the blows.

Hugh let out an exasperated breath. Things sometimes got out of hand when he left and he wondered if that would ever end. For a strong leader like Tavington, the man couldn't seem to manage easy situations, escalating them instead. Bordon had to be the one to regain control, an unofficial duty he could do without that was, unfortunately, happening more often these days.

"Uh….sir…may I be of assistance," he began in an insistent tone, knowing he had to diffuse the situation quickly.

William Tavington let go of the girl and stalked to his desk. He picked up the invoices to His Majesty and thrust them into his subaltern's hands. "Yes!" the colonel answered in an aggravated voice. "Make her sign these!"

Hugh looked at them quickly, identifying them as the new bills that would be reimbursed by the Crown. It had been part of Tavington's plans to discredit Colonel Harry Burwell in the eyes of the rebels and his own commanders, then hopefully draw him out.

The dragoon commander scowled at the girl, making her cower back against the wall. Then he suddenly thrust the riding crop into his adjutant's hands as he marched out of the room in a huff, slamming the door behind him.

Captain Bordon knew that his superior wanted him to continue beating the girl. Hugh looked at the crop with disdain then threw it down to the floor with a hard breath of frustration. Then he glared at Betsy, furious that she had gotten herself into trouble again with the colonel.

"Well, what happened _this_ time?"

The girl drew herself away from the wall cautiously. "Those invoices," Miss Burwell stammered, raising her arm and pointing at the papers in the captain's hand.

Hugh's eyes rounded at the sight of fresh blood oozing from her left palm. He reached for the girl.

She sniffled, wiping the tears away with her fingers. "I can't sign—"

"Good Lord," interrupted Bordon as he took the girl by the wrist, gently guiding her around the desk. "Sit down."

Betsy watched as the captain disappeared through the door. She could hear his muffled voice as she looked down at her hand in her lap, bleeding. It seemed to throb more as she stared at it.

Captain Bordon soon reappeared and moved back across the office. He quickly shed his red jacket, pulling his white handkerchief out of it as he laid the coat over a chair. The officer rolled his sleeves up and loosened his cravat. Then he pulled a chair over in front of the young lady, and sat down facing her, their knees nearly touching.

He took her injured hand and examined it. The redcoat surmised that it was a defense wound. The colonel had landed a direct hit to her palm when she tried to shield herself from him. His crop had opened the healing slice on her hand.

"It was healing well," Bordon said with a resigned sigh. He wrapped it with his handkerchief to stem the bleeding.

Betsy shook her head dejectedly. She rubbed her left shoulder, still smarting from one of the blows, with her right hand. The girl wasn't sure how many times the Colonel struck her. For once she was glad to be wearing a full bunch of petticoats during a hot day for it helped lessen the whip blows to her legs, providing a thick shield of material. Her arms and upper body fared less well, the single layer of material in her bodice not much protection against the crop.

At least my dress and long sleeves will hide any bruises, she thought to herself.

The girl looked down at the floor, fighting back her tears. The things being asked of her were too much, she felt. Housing the enemy and their whores, physical injury from their leader, the redcoats commandeering their foodstuffs, crops, and livestock for their own use, and now wanting to issue invoices in her father's name to the enemy government was personally devastating.

"Miss Burwell?"

The young lady was miles away, lost in her own sorrow. She forgot that one of the enemy leaders, a man she wanted to trust, sat near her. The girl heaved a sigh, her head spinning in confusion. Betsy wanted her ideal, boring life back. She detested the way things were now.

Hugh reached forward. His fingers beneath the girl's chin, he tipped her head up to where she looked at him. She looked so forlorn and helpless.

"Do you like getting hurt by the Colonel?" he asked, his voice full of anger and genuine concern.

His face bore a shadow of whiskers and the dust of the red Carolina dirt kicked up by his horse. But through the grime, Betsy could see that the man was physically tired. She also saw his frustration at her.

She closed her eyes and sighed. Then she stood and walked toward the window, where she hesitated.

"I have done a lot to accommodate His Majesty's cavalry," she began in a soft voice, "but I can't do this. I won't sign those papers."

"I'm afraid you are not in the position to refuse," Bordon advised as gently as he could.

"I can't," she said in a desperate voice. "Papa will think I've sided with the enemy. It will disgrace us…..and him."

"Miss Burwell, you have to—"

"Captain, I can't!" protested Betsy, hoping he would see her way. "We'll lose our customers if they know we are doing business with the British."

"You don't _have_ a choice," the officer said firmly.

"I won't, captain!", she argued. "You have everything else…the house, the farm, me and my staff. You commandeered _all_ that. Why don't you just take the supplies as well?"

"Because we are honorable soldiers, not thieves," Bordon said, believing it. That was a lie that he and every other British officer deluded themselves about. The King's army _did_ take things, but in their eyes, it wasn't stealing. It was punishment doled out to the traitors and justified. It was also a necessity for the army's survival.

"If I sign those invoices, then my father will lose respect in the eyes of his men and the generals he serves under," she cried. "I won't do it!"

"Miss Burwell, it is Colonel Tavington's orders," the captain asserted. "You_ will_ sign them."

"My father will disown me," she bemoaned, fighting the tears again.

"I can assure you that the colonel will be hard on you if—"

"Please don't make me," the girl pleaded, shaking her head. "Don't make me sign them."

"Miss Burwell, I can protect you from everything but the colonel," he said, giving her a hard, serious stare that stopped her cold.

There was a long silence as the captain's words rang like a gong through Betsy's head and soul. She was learning to trust this officer. He seemed protective of her, always coming to her rescue when the colonel unleashed his wrath on her. The girl was confused again, not knowing who to trust or what to believe.

"You'd let him hurt me?," she asked in a tiny, hurt voice.

"Do you think you are the only one here who is left without a choice in such matters?" Bordon asked her. "When it comes to Colonel Tavington's commands, there is only so much I can do until it becomes insubordination. I wouldn't have a word in the matter. I can't stop his harshness upon you if you refuse."

The truth was that Hugh wouldn't stop it. He had plotted with the colonel to find other ways to flush Colonel Burwell out. Making the rebel leader's daughter look as if she was willingly dealing with the enemy was just one of the schemes to lure him to them. Bordon had to let _some_ threat creep in to goad the girl into the plan.

"He's all I have now," she wept.

Bordon motioned for the girl to sit back down. He needed to keep her trust, keep her calm, and persuade her to sign their invoices all at the same time.

"War is a disastrous time," Bordon explained in an understanding voice, trying to win her back. "Captives in hopeless situations may fall to desperate measures."

Her tears seemed to stop for a moment as she looked at him, searching his eyes for something. Betsy wanted to believe him.

Seeing that he had her full attention, he continued on. "Prisoners sometimes have to do things they normally wouldn't do just to survive. You can tell your father that we forced you to sign the invoices."

"He won't believe—"

"Yes he will," Bordon assured. "He is a leader in this war and has seen firsthand what people must do for survival. He will believe that you didn't want to sign the forms, but that you did so to stay alive. He will forgive you later when you are reunited with him."

"I don't know," she said, obviously torn. Her face clouded into sadness.

"I don't want to see the colonel hurt you again," the captain cajoled. Yet he truly didn't want the girl suffering punishment at the hands of his leader. "Sign these so that you don't."

With that, he pushed the invoices across the desk to the girl. Betsy hesitated a moment, then took the quill from the inkwell. She swallowed hard as she scribbled her signature on the British papers. And as the girl pushed the papers back to the captain, she didn't feel any sort of relief; she only felt remorse and uncertainty.

A knock at the door broke the heavy silence of the room but couldn't coax Miss Burwell from her sorrow. She slumped back in the chair as the captain went to the door.

"Thank you, Miss Pansy," she heard the officer say just before closing the door. She heard his boots on the floor, hearing him stop at the desk. The young woman was too dejected to look up, not caring who had been at the door or what the dragoon adjutant was doing.

Hugh pulled his chair back over in front of the forlorn girl, once again facing her. "Give me your hand," he requested.

The girl looked up at him inquisitively. He was turned slightly sideward in his chair, occupied with something on the desk. Her eyes followed his arms to a basin and bandage rolls sitting near the man. The pungent smell of vinegar filled her nose as the captain opened a bottle of the stuff and emptied some of it onto a linen.

Blood from the reopened wound had seeped through the officer's handkerchief, still wrapped about her palm. The captain took her hand and gently unwrapped it, laying the soiled kerchief aside.

He studied the unfortunate wound on her palm and sighed. "Pity," he said softly, "It was healing well."

Captain Bordon dabbed at the cut carefully cleaning it with the vinegar soaked cloth. The girl inhaled sharply at the sting of the disinfectant.

"I'll have our surgeon look at it," Hugh said as he put the linen into the basin. The officer picked up a bandage and unrolled the strip.

"It is going to have to be plastered again," Bordon commented as he wrapped her injured hand.

Betsy watched the officer as he doctored her hand, remembering that he told her of the dragoons having basic knowledge of field medicine, for times that they were separated from their surgeon. She looked at his face as he inspected the bandage he'd just placed. She saw miles and hours of hard riding etched upon it, along with the dark circles under his bleary eyes. And although he was the enemy, she could see that the man was stretched in his duties and weary, yet here he was, helping her again.

"You look tired," she said softly, timidly.

"I'm exhausted," he answered as he closed up the vinegar bottle, placing it back on the desk.

Her eyes followed the sleepy captain as he stood and retrieved his coat from the back of the chair. He folded it over his arm as he walked toward the door.

The girl's voice stopped him. At the doorway, he turned to look at her.

"Thank you, captain," said Miss Burwell. "Once again you rescued me and mended my wounds."

Bordon knew she was referring to his "saving" her from the colonel's wrath. He said nothing, merely nodding his head to her.

"How do I repay you?" the young girl asked.

"By staying out of trouble," Captain Bordon replied. "Especially for the next few hours so that I can get some sleep."

"Yes sir," she answered, looking down at the floor.

She lingered alone in the office a moment as she listened to the captain's footsteps fading down the hallway. The young woman looked at her left hand, freshly bandaged. Then, Miss Burwell looked at the desktop again, spying the invoice, ink drying on it. She reached across the desk, pulling the bill back toward her with her fingertips.

The young girl studied the paper and felt a hurting in her heart as she read it again. _Miss Betsy Burwell, ever faithful subject of the Crown, _her signature on the line above it, blatant and glaring at her, reminding her of an innocent betrayal.

Tears welled in her eyes again, soon blurring her vision, making her unable to continue looking at her traitorous signature. She was sure that she had just made a deal with the devil, her name scrawled as a promise to serve.

Betsy stood to leave, looking away from the desk, not wanting to be reminded of her perceived treachery.

"My God," she sobbed, "what have I done?"


	18. Chapter 17: A Compromising Situation

**Dear readers. **

**I am so sorry that it has taken nearly 3 months to update this story. Real life had a firm hold on me and pushes fun stuff like writing to the rear of the line. My knee surgery is done and I am recovering and back to work. Wendy starts school this week. Oh, life. Anyway, thanks for your patience and for staying with the story. Again, sorry for the delay in updating. Hope you enjoy!**

**Take care**

**JScorpio ... Indianapolis, Indiana, USA**

Chapter 17 A Compromising Situation

Two days had passed since Miss Burwell had been persuaded—ordered, rather—by the dragoon officers to sign the reimbursement invoices to the British government. The girl cringed when she had been given more papers to affix her name to. Her heart ached when she pictured her father looking at her name inked on the cursed documents. She couldn't help but wonder what he would think; what he would do?

It was always the same. She signed on the line above the same mocking phrase: _"Miss Betsy Burwell, ever faithful subject of the Crown." _It was as if the words glared at her from the page, laughing silently at her every time she penned her signature. And although the ever diplomatic Captain Bordon had tried his best to alleviate her shame, assuring her that her father would understand that she had gone to extremes to survive, she felt no better. The poor girl had already experienced one sleepless night and two guilt filled days.

This evening, Betsy had retired early, right after supper, wishing to be alone. She tried reading, then writing in an attempt to take her mind off things, but that couldn't erase her own self reproach. The girl finally gave in and slipped under the covers, retreating to the familiar comfort and solace of her own bed.

Miss Burwell soon found herself tossing and turning, unable to sleep. It seems that even tonight, her own bed could not lull her into slumber. She gave up, feeling helpless, and sat up straight, looking about the darkness in her room. Betsy hugged her knees to her chest and rocked quietly. After a moment of the usually soothing motion, anguish seized the young girl and she began to weep.

Across the hall, Captain Bordon had drifted off to sleep, only to be awakened by nature's call. The officer wearily climbed out of bed, reaching for his watch on the nightstand as he did. Hugh flipped it open to check the time, then closed it and put it back on the table. The dragoon second in command walked groggily to the chamber pot to relieve himself.

He stood over the bowl and urinated. Bordon was used to hearing nothing but his piss pouring into the ceramic pot against the quiet of the night. But this night, he heard muffled sobs. Hugh thought they were coming from Miss Burwell's room.

When he was finished, he pulled his breeches on then threw his shirt on quickly, leaving it open at the collar and hanging loosely. The officer hesitated in his room at the door, listening for other noises in the hallway. He heard only the weeping of the girl.

Captain Bordon was apprehensive, wondering if Colonel Tavington had approached the Burwell girl with some order or reprimand that had upset her. Knowing that her bawling across the hall would keep him awake, he decided to go to her. He hoped a sympathetic ear would quiet the girl.

Leaving his room and crossing the corridor quietly, he rapped softly on the door. "Miss Burwell," the man called through the door. There was no answer.

Inside, Betsy immediately stifled her cries at the knock. It was the familiar voice of the affable Captain Bordon. She did not care to talk toanyone now—_especially_ a redcoat. The teenager hoped he would leave if she did not answer.

Both stayed quiet for a moment, Betsy in her bedroom and Hugh on the other side of the door in the hallway. The officer and the girl played at the game of stubbornness, each listening for noise on the opposite side of the door.

After a moment, the captain spoke. "Miss Burwell," he rapped at the door again, "I know you're awake. I heard you."

The girl didn't answer. She pulled the covers up to her chin and sat still, waiting for Bordon to go away. A chill ran through her, making her pull the blanket even tighter to her body. Betsy scowled at the door in the dark, as if Bordon could see her threatening stare through it. Mad that he had disturbed her solace, she wanted him to go away.

In the hallway outside her door, the officer wasn't ready to give up. He was concerned for the girl, again wondering if she had had another confrontation with the colonel. The captain could wait and hear about it from the colonel, but he would still like to know Miss Burwell's side of what happened, if anything did.

A crafty Bordon reached over to his bedroom door and shut it, purposely loud enough for it to be heard. Then he stood stock still a moment, lest the floor creak beneath him.

Betsy heard the captain's door shut. Glad that he had gone to bed and relieved that she didn't have to talk to another redcoat, she let go a sigh of relief. Soon the tears filled her eyes again. This time she buried her face in the covers, hoping not to alert anyone again. The girl just wanted to sob in private.

Captain Bordon's patience was soon rewarded when after a moment, he heard the Burwell girl softly weeping again. The officer knocked on the girl's door again, startling her. "Miss Burwell, I can't sleep with you crying," he called. "Open the door."

"Go away!" she shouted, upset that he'd caught her crying again. The young girl sucked in a breath and held it, stopping her sobbing yet again.

Hugh sighed in frustration. When he heard no more noise from her room, he shook his head and turned toward his quarters. As he opened the door, he heard the girl's forlorn weeping yet again. The man was wide awake now and knew that he wouldn't be able to sleep knowing that his young captive was obviously so upset by something.

The officer resolved not to be refused this time. He spun on his heel to face the Burwell girl's door. Bordon knocked on the door, opening it at the same time without an invitation.

Betsy jumped, startled at the man's intrusion into her chambers. She thought he had given up and gone to bed. Her sobbing stopped mid cry as she grabbed the blanket up, covering herself up modestly. Hugh Bordon, as surprised as she was to find her in that state, turned his head to the side as she gathered herself into decency. He opened his mouth to speak but was stopped before he could do so.

"Leave me alone!" she said in her loudest whisper, straining to keep her voice down lest someone else discover the man in her room, though innocent.

"No," he refused. "You're troubled. What's the concern?"

She thrust her arm from beneath the blankets, pointing firmly at the door. "LEAVE!"

"No!," the captain insisted. "Your crying is keeping me awake. We _will_ speak."

"I don't want to talk to _any_ redcoat!" She fought back tears.

"Of course you don't," he smirked. "But there isn't anyone else awake to talk with, so you are stuck with me. We can't do this in your chambers." With that, he picked her robe up from the floor and threw it onto her bed.

She looked angrily at him, seething under her bedspread because he wouldn't go away. The girl knew she had to talk to him now, if only to get him to leave her alone.

"Join me in the dining room," he ordered in a firm voice. "I think we can both use a glass of wine."

Betsy reached for the robe. The officer turned his back to the girl, allowing her some modesty to slip it on. She was tying it closed as she passed the captain on her way out of the room.

In a moment, the two entered the darkened dining room. The moon showed through the large windows, illuminating the room just enough for the girl and the officer to see through eyes already used to the dark.

Hugh moved to the corner cabinet where the liquor was kept. He poured some brandy into a snifter for himself and quickly drained it. As his throat warmed from the drink, the man poured a small bit of wine into a goblet, then handed it to the girl. Betsy took a small sip and apathetically set the glass in front of her.

The moonlight through the windows was enough for Bordon to see the young lady staring blandly down at the light blue table cloth. He studied her for a moment, wondrous at how she blubbered tears just moments ago, and now how her spirit seemed a million miles away, leaving a shell of her behind gazing at an inanimate object, sure the girl wasn't even noticing the table.

After a minute passed, the captain sighed and sat down across from the girl. The scraping of the wooden chair on the floor as Bordon pulled the seat in under him was enough to rouse the girl from torpor. She stood up and turned to look out the window, as if trying to find some tranquility outside in the night. Then Betsy Burwell turned, wringing her hands as she paced back and forth.

"What troubles you," asked the officer.

The young lady spun instantly on her heels. Her hands were on her hips as she stared accusingly at the dragoons' resident diplomat. "Is it _not_ apparent?"

"I don't read minds, Miss Burwell," he scolded lightly at the impetuous youth. "The idea is to converse."

Instead of answering, the girl resumed mindlessly treading the room again.

The cavalry leader took a deep breath, tired of the stirred antics and inexperience of youthfulness. He resisted his own urge to lash out at the girl, knowing that it would serve no purpose. Even though, he couldn't stem his sarcasm. "You've not had a problem speaking out to the colonel, missy," he reminded.

He watched as the Burwell girl stopped in her tracks. Indeed, the memory of her insolence to Colonel Tavington made her lacerated palms ache again. She caressed them, soothing herself as she looked at the floor, admitting silently that the captain was correct.

Though Hugh was concerned for the girl and the cause of her distress, he looked at the situation as a possible opportunity for intelligence. He never knew when a prisoner might utter some small gem of information. Often a captive in the midst of sadness or unrest could reveal a jewel of data without realizing they did.

"_You_ listen," she answered, a bit embarrassed. "_He_ doesn't."

"And I'm giving you the chance to air your concerns out now," he offered. The captain leaned back in his chair, noticing her apprehension. "I assume you find me easier to converse with than the colonel since you come to me with all your dealings."

Betsy sighed, feeling now that she had to speak with him. She felt trapped, wanting only to run back to her room.

Bordon smiled inwardly. He could see that he was getting to her, making her feel as though she had to reveal her thoughts.

"Speak your heart," the officer coaxed.

Betsy turned away from him, not wanting to share anything with this redcoat, diplomatic as he was. Yet she was bursting inside. She needed to talk.

She took a deep breath, then a dam somewhere inside her finally broke. "I miss my mother! I need her so much," she blurted. The girl began to pace as she released her thoughts. "And Steven! He just left against papa's wishes leaving me to run the farm. I don't want to run the plantation!"

Her tirade continued with Bordon listening intently. "And now he's gone. And Father is away commanding his troops, whom he seems to love more than me. He wouldn't even trade himself for me. And my fiancé is humiliating me by bedding his way through the Northwest territory!"

Hugh sighed as the young lady wailed, slightly disappointed. So far, he hadn't heard anything that he didn't know already. Still he kept quiet in hopes that something might be revealed.

Betsy went on, getting more emotional as she spoke. "And you lobsters! You kidnap me. The colonel delights in hurting me, mutilating my hands and beating me with his riding crop. You force me to sign papers that make me look like a turncoat! You seize my plantation and you've made me a prisoner in my own home!"

The girl stopped, breathless after she'd spilled all that was on her mind. She was panting as she looked at the dragoon second in command, fighting to hold tears back. Betsy had a helpless, pleading look on her face as she gazed at the dragoon officer. "Everything has happened so fast and unexpectedly."

"It usually does in a time of war," Hugh gently reminded.

"Nothing is the way I planned it for my life," she lamented.

"Even the best laid plans can go awry," he said.

"No!," Betsy retorted. "I never wanted any of this! I don't want to run the farm or any of this! I just want to live a regular girl's life."

Bordon jumped from his chair and challenged her. "You mean the life of a privileged young woman?"

"NO!" she countered. "I just want to be a plain old farm girl like before."

"Well, things aren't like before," Hugh firmly informed. "There is a war on! Did you think you would just lead a carefree life? My dear, this war has changed all our lives and how we lead them."

"Not me! I'm sick of this! I want papa!" She turned quickly and faced the door. Captain Bordon began to worry, knowing the girl to be rash.

"I didn't want this!", she shouted. "I'm leaving."

Hugh sucked in a breath, having to think quick as he watched Miss Burwell fall apart before his eyes. He had suspected that she would do something insane.

"Where are you going," he asked quickly, stalling her while he could get his thoughts together to find the words to calm her.

"I'm going to find my father!" she yelled in reply, seething as she looked on in anger, not so much at him, but at the situation.

The girl was having a teenage, adolescent fit. Yet Bordon understood that her frustrations were not misplaced. The captain knew that the girl needed her father, feeling for her that family was not about her at this time of war. He had been charged with her safety and well being and had tried his best to make her captivity tolerable.

As Miss Burwell raged on, Hugh feared that the increasing volume of her distress would wake the farm and bring curious onlookers and over protective servants. Moreover, he was afraid that her wild anguish would rouse his insensate superior from his sleep. Bordon foresaw that Lieutenant Colonel William Tavington would not be lenient.

"You're being absurd," he scolded gently as he rose from his chair. "You cannot leave."

"I will! I want my father!"

The captain began to approach the girl. "There are bandits and men out there along the road that will hurt you." He slowly raised his arm in front of him, whether to take her hand or grasp her shoulder if need be.

"There are redcoats _here_ who seek to harm me," Betsy retorted, hands going to her hips.

"Yes, the colonel. He will never permit you to leave," Bordon warned. "He will have no mercy when he catches you."

Betsy's youthful face contorted in a crinkled horror, silencing her for an instant. She soon found her tongue though as she inched back toward the doorway. "Then let him do his worst, but I am not staying one more minute!"

With that, she lifted her robe and night gown slightly as she walked through the door. Miss Burwell was soon halted by a strong arm grabbing her. Indeed Captain Bordon took hold of the girl firmly and pulled her back into the ballroom.

"I am not going to let you traipse into the countryside and get hurt," he asserted.

"Let go of me!," she growled as she tried to pull free of him. "I won't stay!"

"Don't you understand," he gasped as he fought to subdue the youth, "that you're safer here as a prisoner with some protection than you are out there?"

"No!", Betsy cried, struggling crazily to pull away from the officer.

But the captain quickly over powered the girl with superb strength, soon grabbing her other arm. She fought against him as best as she could but couldn't pull away, crying out all the while how she was determined to get to Colonel Burwell.

Hugh pulled the struggling girl tightly to him as she pounded on his arms and chest, still wriggling and fighting to get away from him. She felt him crushing her to his body and wanted nothing more than to flee this man; flee her farm.

After another moment of struggling, the girl tired, then stumbled and fell to her knees at his feet. Her body doubling up, she began to cry pitifully.

"I want my father. I want my father", she wailed.

Bordon stood there, looking down at the crumpled heap of a girl lying at his feet. Feeling badly for the young lady, he reached down, grasped her upper arms strongly and pulled her back up to her feet. The officer encircled the girl in his arms, holding her firmly against his chest. Once there, she buried her face in her hands, and rested herself against him, too tired to resist.

He looked down at the mass of sandy waves of hair tussled about obscuring her face, hidden in her hands as she cried into them against his chest. It wasn't hard for him to find words of comfort for the youngster.

"There there," he whispered as he held her. "This is all exhaustion and nerves."

"I want papa," she blubbered.

"Of course you do," he cajoled softly. "You're tired. You've had so much heaped on you in such a short time. And a war raging about us doesn't help things."

The girl shook and wept against him, still murmuring that she wanted her father. Hugh went on trying to console the girl. "You are doing a fine job of running this plantation though you don't want to. And you have people about you to help."

"This war will end," the man comforted. "It won't last forever. You are doing what you need to do to survive. Your father will understand that."

Her weeping seemed to let up a bit. But just as she seemed to have calmed, then she heaved into another great fit of cries.

"I want to be with father," she sobbed, muffled into her hands.

He closed his eyes as Miss Burwell still pined for her papa. Afraid that she would run away still after this crying jag stopped, he quickly sought some more words of comfort and perhaps some advise—anything to calm the girl and keep her from doing something foolhardy.

His hands went to her upper arms, rubbing them strongly in a soothing gesture up and down them, as if warming the girl from the cold. "You saw your father's letter weeks ago," he reminded softly. "You wouldn't be with him. He would send you away someplace else for safety. At least you are here in your home surrounded by servants who care for you."

"No, no," she wept. "Papa." Her heart beat hard in her chest and nearly up into her throat, her own sobs threatening to choke her. Indeed Betsy felt despair at her situation and wanted the assured protection of her father.

"Sh, sh," the captain hushed her softly. The girl wept softly, her body still shaking in his arms, against the quiet of the night.

"Well, well," a male voice shouted, piercing the dark.

Captain Bordon, with the girl still in his arms, looked up at the sudden intrusion. Betsy, after another quiet sob, looked up as well to face the direction of the voice. Her face was red and swollen from crying. Both were startled to see Mr. Waldron standing at the door of the assembly room.

Before the redcoat officer and the girl could say anything, the farm overseer stepped into the room. "I wondered how long it would be before one of you lobsters took advantage of the goodly women here!"

Mrs. Leyanova appeared almost as fast, holding a candlestick before her, looking in at the captain and her own young plantation mistress. The housekeeper's eyes widened to see the girl in the arms of the dragoon aide de camp.

Colonel Tavington then appeared in the doorway, pushing past the Russian housemaid to make his way into the room. The shouts from the midst of the girl's fit had awoken the, bringing them to the ballroom to see what was the matter.

"What?" Betsy asked in a confused stupor.

"This is not as it seems," Hugh Bordon objected as he pulled away from the young lady. "The girl was upset."

"She will be consoled by one of us," Waldron snapped back, making it clear that the overseer didn't appreciate redcoats handling the pain of Miss Burwell's adolescence.

"It is part of my duty to see after her well being," the officer countered.

Tavington stood back, watching the situation. He held his tongue, looking on as his adjutant effectively pled his case.

"Is it part of your duty to make advances on the young woman?" the farmhand asked.

"Woman?" Captain Bordon shot back. "She is nothing more than a girl. Just because she is of marrying age and may be promised to some rebel officer doesn't make her a grown woman. On the contrary, she's a distraught child."

"Yes and whose fault is that?" Waldron queried sarcastically.

"The War," Bordon answered flatly.

"You Lobster backs are to blame!" Jake Waldron shot back, beginning to inch toward Miss Burwell.

"Not entirely," the captain countered. "Colonel Burwell is just as much to blame!"

Betsy was now standing between the two men, 10 feet of difference betwixt the two. The confrontation had left the girl stunned and silent, unable to answer their anger. She loved and trusted Mr. Waldron, whom had been her father's trusted friend since the day she was born. On the other hand, Miss Burwell had grown to trust the captain, who had protected her and treated her fairly. She could not admit that to herself, and the fact that she was growing fond of the dragoon officer, as well.

"For defending us against you?" the farmhand called back.

Hugh took a step closer to the rebel overseer. "Yes!", he replied. "And for running off on this damned fool cause that you all insist on, leaving the farm in the hands of a girl." His arm extended out, pointing at Miss Burwell as if she was an exhibit in a courtroom before a jury.

"How dare you accuse Harry Burwell!" Waldron stomped toward the redcoat captain. Mrs. Leyanova gasped audibly, twisting the side of her robe nervously in her fingers.

Colonel Tavington stood there, still having said nothing, just watching. He smiled inwardly, always glad to challenge a rebel about anything. Captain Bordon may as well have been acting in a play that William was enjoying.

"How dare you assume my intentions toward that child," he rebutted, pointing again at Betsy, "are less than honorable!"

"Don't think we haven't heard the rumors," Jake informed. "The way you dragoons conduct your…duty….is all over the countryside." His mind flashed to a night not so long ago, when Tavington's legion was riding up their lane, and he warned Betsy then that these men did not have a good reputation.

The men were so close to each other now that one more step and Betsy Burwell would be crushed between them. She worried that one or the other would momentarily challenge a duel. The wanted neither of these men's blood on her hands.

The girl put her arms out, as if her girlish body could hold either of the bruins back, and spoke. "Mr. Waldron, please," she begged, "I assure you that Captain Bordon was never less than a gentleman to me."

Both men kept their guard up, yet took the opportunity to take a quick breath. The girl went on. "Indeed all of this is my fault. I was having a fit, and my actions woke everyone. The captain did his best to keep me calm. I was frustrated and upset, but I am better now. I'm sorry."

Waldron was suspicious still. He wondered if the girl was so intimidated by the dragoons that she would dare not accuse them lest she be punished. The farmhand could not accept her explanation, for he trusted his sight.

"I saw you with my own eyes," he reminded. "He was taking advantage of you in your time of despair."

"I assure you, that was not it," Bordon repeated, his anger at the accusation against him and having to assert his innocence wearing his patience thin. "I do have a care for our prisoners, that they are treated well. Especially the children, who are often the innocent victims of this war."

"Hmph. You wear your diplomacy well," Waldron charged sarcastically. "You speak a well rehearsed speech!"

William became angry at the ongoing accusations and finally spoke up. "Mr. Waldron, if my subaltern says it was innocent, then it was. He is a most honorable officer and a man of his word."

Jake took a breath and stepped backward, his rigid body letting down a bit. He was not about to challenge the officer that nearly executed him in town just weeks before. With that, he took Miss Burwell gently by the wrist and moved her toward himself and Mrs. Leyanova. The housekeeper put her arm around the girl's shoulders and led her toward the door, following Mr. Waldron.

Betsy looked back at the two dragoons left behind in the dining room. The colonel was glaring at her. And the captain's eyes were fixed on Mr. Waldron, his exasperation still showing. Bordon's eyes glanced back at the girl, who was looking sorrowfully at him.

The girl felt badly that she has caused an accusation up an officer that had helped her and treated her well, and whether she knew it or not, had begun to trust. "I'm sorry," she mouthed.

Bordon nodded, acknowledging her silent words. As the trio of rebels disappeared, the clinking the crystal carafe got his attention. He turned to find his superior pouring a glass of wine. Tavington offered the glass to Bordon, who graciously took it. William filled another glass, and both men drained the fermented juice nearly as quickly as the colonel had poured it.

"Thank you, sir," Hugh said as he put his empty glass on the table.

Instead of a gracious acknowledgement, the senior officer answered with a thinly disguised reprimand. "Comforting the prisoners now, are you?"

"She was upset," explained the second in command. "She was going to run away to her father's camp. I stopped her."

Tavington gave his adjutant a cockeyed look. His lips curled into a crooked smile, which told Bordon that William was enjoying watching him squirm under scrutiny. But his commander's eyes seemed to burrow into him, making Hugh feel as if he was in trouble.

"You _did_ charge me with her care," Bordon reminded, still defending himself.

"Because you are such a good diplomat," Tavington answered with a tinge of teasing.

With that, William turned and walked toward the door. Once there, he stopped in the doorway, and without turning his head, said "A word, Captain."

Bordon held his breath, trying to figure out why he might be in trouble. He followed the colonel out the door, down the breezeway steps, and across the lawn. The grass was lukewarm as it shed the heat of the former day as they walked through the yard. After a moment, they ended up at the well.

Bordon watched silently as his commander drew a bucket of water. Setting it on the ledge, Tavington dipped his hands into it and splashed his face and neck. Bordon followed suit, and the two, billowy white shirts over black breeches and bare feet, hair down, cast casual silhouettes by the stone encircling the cistern.

"Bordon, if you want to fuck the Burwell girl, just cease the slow seduction and have at it!"

The captain was momentarily stunned at the crude comment. Then he sighed, wondering why he had been so taken aback at another of his commander's dry remarks that he and Colonel Tarleton could blatantly reel off to whatever male happened to be standing near.

"Sir?" he answered in an obligatory, ignorant tone.

"Your innocence is _so_ convincing," William smirked.

"It _was_ an innocent situation," Bordon asserted, now privy to where his superior's thoughts were.

"Come now, captain," teased the colonel, "She is a beautiful girl, though lacking some of those womanly curves, but she possesses that thing that all men want…virginity."

Tavington took the pail in his hands and poured the water remaining within over his head. He sluiced the fluid out of his dark locks as Bordon spoke.

"That is always a temptation, sir," Hugh agreed with a snide smile.

"Indeed it would be a coup," Tavington began, "for some British soldier to steal her virtue and send her to her traitor officer spoilt!"

Both men laughed at the thought of the rebel Major Clark, who of late, was causing so much trouble for the Crown out on the frontier, finding out on his wedding night that a redcoat had gotten to her virginal fruit first. Both knew that it would dishearten and alarm her father, Colonel Burwell, as much.

"Bedding the wenches always makes their lips a bit loose," Tavington said. "Spilling secrets between moans of pleasure." Both men laughed at the comment.

"I heard about what transpired at the Drakespar plantation the other evening," Tavington uttered.

Bordon drew in a quick breath, wondering how much trouble he was in for raping one of the servants. Rape was punishable by flogging, or even hanging, yet he'd seen his own commander, and Colonel Tarleton as well, force themselves on both rebel and loyalist women upon occasion.

Hugh urgently began to explain. "Sir, I'm sor—"

"Don't apologize, captain," Tavington interrupted. "I'm not mad. I know that you do what you feel you need to in order to obtain information…or intimidate. You are one of the best intelligence agents in His Majesty's army."

"Thank you, sir," Bordon replied, relieved.

The two officers turned from the well and sauntered in the darkness back toward the house. The captain was glad that he wasn't in trouble for the same thing his own superior and other commanders were known to do. After a moment of walking in silence, Hugh asked another question.

"Who told?" He was hoping the colonel would divulge which of the men had a slack jaw and turned him in.

"No one. Do you doubt the loyalty of our men?" Colonel Tavington had to remind him that they often chose men as ruthless as them when recruiting dragoons.

William continued. "Apparently Mrs. Selton returned the day after your raid. She sent a letter of complaint to General O'Hara stating that one of her servants had been assaulted. The maid's father sent a letter to that effect, as well."

They neared the house, where they stopped, out of earshot of any open windows. "Of course, the general wasn't happy about it and I denied the conduct. But the job of intimidation and intelligence gathering is getting done, as well as the winning of battles, so our gentlemanly commander didn't complain too much."

"As long as we fight and conduct our duty as gentlemen," Bordon added in a singsong manner.

"Yes. And as long as it is someone else besides the generals getting their hands dirty," Tavington concluded. "I'm sure they will continue to turn a blind eye."

With that, Captain Bordon and Colonel Tavington bid goodnight to each other. As the captain climbed the stairway to his room, thoughts of his carnal episode with the Selton housemaid, as well as getting caught in an innocent, though what looked like a compromising situation with Miss Burwell hounded his mind. He fell asleep that night with a lover's ache in his groin.


	19. Chapter 18: Unexpected

Chapter 18 Unexpected 

"Private Kinney said that you needed to see me?"

Captain Bordon sat at the table in his room, looking down at stacks of papers neatly piled over the surface. The dragoon second in command was trying to finish up bookkeeping for the unit before the detachment could leave. It was only one of a handful of many mundane, administrative duties that the young officer had to attend to. He was rushing to complete pay packets for the men and balance the petty cash in case funds were needed for expenses while away on assignment. And at the moment, the money coming in and going out on paper was making his eyes cross.

Betsy Burwell stood at the door staring at the officer. He was rubbing his temples and sighing loudly. She could tell he had not heard her.

When the captain, still absorbed in his paperwork did not notice her after another minute passed, she knocked on the doorframe again. "Ahem," she said, clearing her throat to get his attention.

Finally, Hugh looked up at her. "You wanted to see me?" asked Betsy.

Caught off guard, he greeted the girl as he searched through the many piles of paperwork sitting before him. "Yes. Sit down, Miss Burwell."

The girl took a seat in the chair opposite him looking out the window at the cavalrymen assembling on the lawn as she did. The young woman busied herself watching the redcoats as they readied to leave, securing their packs and checking their saddles, while the captain continued rifling through the papers on the desktop.

Hugh soon located the forms he was looking for, shoving them across the desk to the girl. "Please sign these vouchers."

Betsy took the pen from the inkwell, writing her signature quickly, forcing her eyes not to look at the same old mocking words beneath the line. But still, the thought of the phrase, _"Betsy Burwell, ever faithful servant of the Crown"_, would always hang at the back of her mind, still stinging her soul at the recollection of it.

The young girl handed the papers back to Captain Bordon. She stood to leave, then stepped haltingly toward the door. Once there, she hesitated, fingering her skirt apprehensively.

Hugh left the invoices opened on his desk for the ink to dry. He rose, only then noticing the young plantation mistress hesitating in the doorway. The officer shot her a quizzical look.

"Is Colonel Tavington going?" she asked timidly. Betsy and the other inhabitants of the farm had come to detest the harsh commander being left behind with them whenever Bordon was away on patrols and raids.

Hugh rolled his eyes in irritation. Normally he wouldn't have answered a question like that from a prisoner, but it posed no great intelligence risk. It would take a group of hearty, fearless, even foolhardy rebels to attack Tavington and the handful of Green Dragoons left behind at the farm. The attackers would be asking for trouble.

"No. Why do you ask?"

"It's just that," Betsy stammered, "we are more at ease with you here." True-the dragoon adjutant was more inclined to listening before acting, and carrying out the actions with fairness and diplomacy.

"By God, girl," he swore in frustration, "we've spoken of this before. Things could be easier with the Colonel if you and your staff would comply with his directions without protest."

"Yes, sir," Betsy answered, her eyes downcast and disappointed. She quickly disappeared into the hallway.

_Damned rebels, he cussed under his breath._ They could make things much easier, he thought as he neatly folded the papers from his desk, collecting them into his satchel.

The captain glanced out the window, perusing his men assembling on the lawn, readying to move out. He spied Tarsis, his steed, already saddled up, being held by a young stable hand.

While at the window, he donned his red jacket, buttoning it as he looked over the group of men, silently roll calling them.

The officer picked up the pace, quickly strapping on his sabre belt. As he did, he noticed Private Beck embracing his young wife, out on the lawn. He gazed at the youthful couple, holding each other as they bid goodbye.

In a flash, Hugh recalled holding Miss Burwell the other evening as she cried. The man remembered her thin body, feeling so light compared to his, as if holding her anymore tightly to him than he did would crush her. The officer could recollect her shaking against him as she sobbed, her little world falling down around her.

As Captain Bordon looked on at the Beck's, still hugging one another, he suddenly realized that he hadn't held a woman in his arms in nearly two years. The woman was Sarah, his wife. He had held her weakened body against him before she passed away.

And now, since Sarah Bordon, the recollection of a passing embrace with a distraught prisoner stopped him in his tracks. Then he felt his own skin starting to flush at the thought of being caught holding her the other night: by her servants and his own commander.

Hugh shook his head quickly, dismissing the thought as he checked himself in the mirror. Then, he recalled Colonel Tavington's blunt words to him: _If you want to fuck the Burwell girl, just cease the slow seduction and have at it. She is a beautiful girl, though lacking some of those womanly curves, but she possesses that thing that all men want…virginity._

The captain closed his eyes. In his mind, the image of Miss Betsy Burwell writhing beneath him, tears of the pained shattering of her maidenhead in her eyes coupled with the bliss of finally feeling a man inside her, made him catch his breath. After another moment of joyful imaginings, he opened his eyes to the beginning of an erection in his breeches.

_Stop it, Hugh, he chided himself as he shook his head._ The man quickly stepped to his wash basin and splashed a bit of cold water onto his face, trying to calm his excitement. _She's a child, for God's sake!_ Why lay with an inexperienced girl? A seasoned woman moaning his name was the preferred scenario to him.

He quickly left his room and then the house to join his men on the lawn. Bordon mounted his horse and quickly ordered the men to move out. As the horse began his walk, he noticed Miss Burwell on the front porch, arms crossed, standing next to young Miss Polly Callon.

"I hate it when Captain Bordon goes," Polly whispered to her mistress, "and we have to deal with Colonel Tavington."

"Yes," Betsy agreed with a resigned sigh. "The captain is far more understanding and patient."

Captain Bordon bowed his head to the two girls as he rode past them. The two curtsied in response, and did so for the rest of the departing dragoons. Betsy silently hoped the detachment would return soon.

*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*

"Whoa, Darden."

Betsy Burwell's old horse halted at the edge of the brook, immediately dipping his head down to the cool water. The girl adjusted her hat, retying the bow snugly under her chin, looking around at the farm as she did. She gazed out over the field of dingy brown cornstalks, already harvested and lying askew on the ground. The young lady sighed, then turned her attention back to her animal.

The beast drank loudly, sucking and swirling the cool liquid with a whoosh. The horse was swallowing so hard that Miss Burwell could feel his body jerk. Betsy smiled and shook her head, patting the neck of the creature. "You must be parched," she commented. "Drink up."

As the horse drank, Betsy's mind wandered lazily. Captain Bordon's squad had been gone two days, and the farm had been quiet. There had not been one incident with or angry outburst from Colonel Tavington. The most they had endured had been the cavalry leader's scowls and haughty looks of disdain at them, which they could live with. Indeed they were getting used to living with the enemy, crowding them, having them under foot and directing them about. The young lady chuckled to herself, daring to wonder if she and her servants finally understood how to avoid the colonel's wrath—or at least learned to tiptoe silently about.

Betsy was sorry that her ride about the plantation was near the end. She emulated her father's practice of surveying the farm regularly. As she inspected the land, she enjoyed being in the apple orchard. No one was working in it today, and the girl found solace as she was alone there. She relished the quiet rush of the wind through the boughs heavily laden with the green orbs. The breeze brought the sweet scent of the ripening fruit to her nostrils. It was lovely times like this that made her life as a prisoner on her own farm actually tolerable.

The girl realized that she couldn't idle the day away, knowing that she was needed back at the house, thus ending her peaceful abstraction. "Walk on," she said, then clucked her tongue and tugged on the reins.

After splashing through the shallow creek, she heard a distant thunder. Darden's head rose high and stiffened like a statue, his ears pricked up. After only an instant, the beast began to paw impatiently at the ground, nodding his head wildly up and down. Then the horse began to stomp back and forth, and whinnied excitedly.

"Steady there, boy," Miss Burwell commanded, with a firm pull of the reins, trying to keep the animal under control. She could tell by Darden's enthusiastic dance that the low rumble she had heard a minute ago was a group of horses. Knowing that her steed was anxious to see the equine visitors, she snapped the reins and let the horse canter on toward the barns. As she rode, she suspected that Captain Bordon's detachment had returned, and anticipated seeing the familiar dragoon red and green as she neared the house.

In a moment, her horse trotted onto the side lawn of the main house, where she finally caught sight of the cavalry. "Thank God," she murmured to herself, for once happy to see the return of an enemy—among them the diplomatic second in command. "A return to ease," she muttered in relief.

As rider and beast rounded the corner to the barns, Betsy came into a scene of complete confusion. She saw her female servants running from the house toward the tents. As she drew nearer the outbuildings, she heard Colonel Tavington barking orders as he stomped to and fro.

The young plantation mistress spotted Jonathon the stable boy, and rode quickly to him.

She threw the reins to him and dismounted. "What is the trouble?" she asked, straightening her dress when back on the ground. The boy didn't answer as he grabbed the bridle of her steed and the reins of one of the dragoon's mount at nearly the same time. The young man hurriedly ushered the beasts toward the barn.

Betsy scowled in irritation when Jonathon, preoccupied with the animals, didn't answer her question. She looked about at the disarray and sucked in a breath. The girl saw fifteen some odd dragoons hobbling about or leaning on others as they were helped into the large hospital tent. They were bloodied and dirty, and few with their uniforms in shreds. Miss Burwell knew something terrible had transpired.

She soon spied young Polly Callon racing out of the house with a basket full of bandages. Betsy stopped the girl as she neared. "What's going on?"

"The Colonel ordered us to help the surgeon," the servant shouted. She scurried away, not wanting to risk the cavalry commander's ire.

Betsy turned her head and spotted Captain Bordon talking animatedly to his commander on the sidewalk near the house. The girl headed toward the two dragoon leaders, hoping to find out what had happened.

As she drew near, she could finally discern some of their conversation. "We managed to destroy the powder. Blew the magazine off its foundation. We weren't able to get the foodstuffs because of _this_," Bordon exclaimed, holding his arm out, hand pointing toward his injured men.

Betsy surmised that there had been some sort of scuffle. She had been correct. Bordon's unit had ridden out two days ago, destroying rebel supplies and arresting those who aided the traitors. This morning, they had gone into the town of Marburgh to raid a supply depot. They'd managed to obliterate the gunpowder supply, but were surprised when the residents made a stand against them. A strong one indeed, for the skirmish that ensued pushed the dragoons out of the village, thus saving the food supply and livestock. The fight was savage enough that not one of the redcoats was left without some sort of injury, including Bordon.

William Tavington suddenly caught sight of Betsy. He turned on his heel and yelled toward her.

"See to the captain's wound, Miss Burwell!" he ordered.

Startled at the dragoon leader's sudden shout, the girl stopped in her tracks. Betsy gasped when she saw the blood on the left side of the Captain Bordon's jacket trailing down onto his black breeches.

"Nonsense!" Hugh Bordon protested. "Tis a scratch. The men are worse. They are more in need—"

"They are being attended," the colonel asserted. "I can't risk having you down with an infection. Your skill is needed."

"Colonel," Bordon began to argue, but was swiftly cut off.

"Now, go!" Tavington snarled to his aide de camp. "That's an order!"

"Yes sir," the captain answered with a tip of his head. He then turned to Miss Burwell.

"Go into the parlor and rest," she advised. "I'll tend you there." The two parted ways: Hugh walking toward the house; Betsy scampering toward the well.

Once there, she quickly drew up a bucket of water, then scooted into the house. The young woman stopped at the servant's kitchen, gathering some material, vinegar, and other things.

Miss Burwell entered the small parlor to find the officer reclined back on the divan, his arm over his forehead. The man's head pounded with a dull ache, but his wound, on his left chest, throbbed with fury. Betsy saw Captain Bordon's coat and vest thrown over the arm of the couch. Stripped down to his breeches and shirt, the sheer amount of blood soaking the left side of the white linen from what the man called 'a scratch' made the girl's breath catch in her throat. Seeing her startled, saucer eyes, the officer sought to immediately reassure the young woman, hating the fact that a handful of his men were more hurt than him and needed attention worse.

"It's not that bad," commented Hugh. "A mere slice."

The Burwell girl set her supplies on the floor near her and pulled a stool up close to the injured officer. "It just bled a lot," he stated, trying to allay his caretaker's fears. "It stopped awhile ago."

The sour tang of vinegar soon joined the sweet, thick smell of human blood as she opened the vial of the astringent. Bordon sat up straight again, lifting his shirt for the girl to begin her work.

As Betsy moved in close to peruse the injury, the distinct scents of leather, horses, and sweat clung to the officer. His face was soiled with the smoky grime of gunpowder, and a layer of red Carolina dirt.

She squinted, trying to discern where the stab wound began and where the stain of dried crimson ended. The captain watched her as she moved her head and sighed in frustration, unable to get to the injury, far up on his torso.

"Hold on," the officer apologized. The girl sat back allowing the man room to remove his shirt.

She gasped when she saw the full extent of the wound. "A scratch?" she questioned as she studied Bordon's torso. A gash, nearly two inches long, sliced the man's skin diagonally on his left breast above the nipple. It had bled profusely, the blood caked onto the skin around it and had leaked through his shirt onto his belly below.

"A rebel caught me with a sword," he admitted. "He was young—a boy. Not strong enough to stab it too deeply. I kicked him away."

As Betsy assessed the wound and how best to treat it, she couldn't help but notice the captain's chest, finely chiseled with muscle. Her eyes strayed occasionally from the injury, catching a glimpse of his well defined shoulders, as well.

Soon she turned back to her supplies, busying herself over them, feeling her skin flush warmly. She was blushing, and hoped the officer hadn't seen her. The girl had only ever seen the male members of her family, and occasionally the field servants, shirtless. Betsy was embarrassed at this, but knew she had no choice but to treat the man.

Miss Burwell dipped a cloth into the porcelain basin beside her. She wrung the water out of it and lifted the cloth to Captain Bordon's face. "Your face is dirty," she commented nonchalantly almost as if speaking to a boy.

Before she could start the task, the officer stopped her, grabbing her wrist gently. "You take care of the wound; I'll wash my face," he sighed as he took the cloth from her hand.

"Yes sir," she said, looking down. The girl quickly wet another rag, squeezed the water out and began to wash the skin around the wound. She glanced upward as she did, noticing that Bordon had finished wiping his face. The girl took the cloth from him and dropped it back into the basin as she continued.

After a moment, she finished. With the captain's skin clean, she could see the full extent of the injury. The slice was straight, and the skin about it had begun to swell with mild redness and purple with some bruising.

She softly probed the cut, her finger tips within, examining the depth of the wound. Hugh Bordon winced in pain as she did. "I'm sorry," Betsy apologized as the man held his breath. The girl finished quickly, wiping the little bit of blood from her fingertips on her apron.

The young woman smiled slightly as she poured some vinegar onto a clean cloth. Miss Burwell dabbed at the captain's injury with the disinfectant soaked rag, cleansing the wound. "It's not deep," she commented as she cleaned the slice. "Won't need a plaster. I can close it."

"Good," Bordon sighed. The man reclined back a bit, relaxing as Miss Burwell prepared the next part of the treatment. The officer hated having wounds sewed but knew it was necessary for this type of injury. He preferred not to watch the girl thread the needle, forcing himself to look elsewhere. His eyes settled on the basin of water near the young woman. The once clear liquid was now a dingy red hue—a mix of blood, soot, and dirt.

After a minute, Hugh saw that the girl was ready to begin. He sat up straight again, setting his jaw hard for the first stick of the needle through his skin. She put her left hand on his chest, holding the sides of the wound together with her fingers. Betsy brought her right hand up and made the initial stick as gently as she could.

Captain Bordon grit his teeth, looking away, trying not to flinch with each stitch of the needle. As she sewed, she leaned in close enough to him that he could now smell the faint floral aroma in her hair. It was enough to calm him a bit as she stitched.

But as her right hand worked, the heel of it brushed unintentionally back and forth over his left nipple. Her finger tips on the skin of his chest were soft. The officer hoped she hadn't noticed that his nipple had puckered and stiffened, or that she knew what _that_ meant. Hugh closed his eyes and sighed, hoping she would finish soon.

After a couple of moments, the sewing was done. "Hold this," the girl said, handing a wet compress to the man. He pressed it against the freshly stitched wound, soaking up the little dots of blood from the many needle pokes to his skin.

Bordon watched the girl quietly as she put the needle and thread away. The scent of her hair, the fresh memory of her hands on his bare chest, and the ringing of Tavington's coarse words about her through his mind was too much for him. The captain felt warmth in his groin.

The young lady leaned forward again to survey her handiwork on his wound. As she looked intently at the stitches, _he_ stared just as intently down at her. Unable to resist, Captain Bordon let his head drop down, his body swaying forward a bit, intending to kiss the girl.

Miss Burwell leaned back as he tried, avoiding the kiss. Startled, she sat backwards for an instant, frozen to the stool. Her eyes met the officer's. His face held the innocent expression of a man who needed to feel a woman's lips on his.

The scooting of the stool on the wooden floor broke the silence, Betsy jumping up quickly from it. She gathered her supplies equally as fast. As she did, the captain said nothing, staying seated on the couch. His face held no apology for making an advance on the girl.

The young woman was so stunned that she didn't know what to say or do. Some words finally formed and were blurted out. "If…if… you will leave those," she stammered, pointing at his discarded shirt, vest, and jacket, "I'll launder them and…and… mend the rip."

"Of course," answered Bordon with a nod of his head.

She turned away and walked toward the doorway. "I'll have the servants bring a bath for you," Betsy called back, wanting nothing more than to get out of the room and away from Captain Bordon.

"Miss Burwell," he called. The girl stopped in her track just at the door. She was filled with an inexplicable dread. She had almost escaped.

Betsy turned back slowly, her head down, looking at the man out of the tops of her eyes. She was relieved that the officer was still standing by the couch.

"Thank you for tending me," said Bordon, his voice deep and disarming. And though across the room from her still after this awkward moment, he looked at her with no regret anywhere on his being.

"I was ordered to," she stuttered, still not knowing what to say or how to act after the officer's boldness.

"Yes," answered the captain, "thank you for complying with the orders."

Betsy curtsied, then smiled a shaky smile and hurried from the room, still in disbelief over what almost happened.

/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/

"You didn't eat much," Mrs. Leyanova said as she collected the tray from the table in Betsy's room. The girl didn't join the others in the dining room for dinner this evening. She would not know what to say or how to act when encountering Captain Bordon again. The man's advance on the young woman earlier today had left her confused.

"Seeing the men today….all the blood," Miss Burwell stammered out her lie. She was too embarrassed and afraid to tell anyone that one of the redcoat captors had tried to kiss her.

"Tending wounds always made me sick when I was younger, too," the older woman commented in her Russian accent. "You'll be better tomorrow."

"Good night, missy," the maid said as she carried the tray toward the door.

"Good evening, Mrs. Leyanova."

When the door shut, Betsy stood and stretched. She walked aimlessly across the room, then settled onto her bed. The girl sighed, still troubled over the situation from earlier today.

She wondered why he had done what he did. Betsy did not think the older man to be interested in her. The young girl laid back, burying her face in the pillow, wishing she could get the incident out of her head.

After a moment, she groaned and pounded her fist into the bedding, unable to get the image of the man's face when it was so near to hers out of her mind. Betsy had admired his well toned physique, ashamed that she had, knowing that a proper lady should not have felt that way. _Why would Captain Bordon be interested in a betrothed woman, she asked herself._

Miss Burwell suddenly remembered her dear Major Clark. _Yes, father has me betrothed to George Rogers Clark, she thought._ He was so handsome and kind to her last summer—she adored him. The tall red haired officer had been the first man she had ever given thoughts of romance about. But now, she dared to look at another.

Betsy sat up as her mind spun itself in circles. This other officer that she has noticed, that tried to kiss her, is the enemy. And her captor, nonetheless. The girl chastised herself for feeling like this. She had to do something to break the temporary spell that this redcoat had cast over her.

"I'll write to him," Betsy said to herself. She rose from the bed, walking toward the wardrobe. "I'll write to George."

The young woman quickly shed her dress, then pulled on her nightgown. "We can have a courtship through letters," Betsy said as she walked toward her desk. "I could send correspondence in care of one of the stations in the Kentucky territory. It is _bound_ to get to him."

The girl sat down at her desk, pulled out some paper, excited at having her mind straight again. "He'll be surprised to hear from me," she giggled. "I'm sure he will write back." Betsy dipped her pen in the inkwell, then set to writing.

_Major George Rogers Clark_

_in care of Logan's Station, Kentucky territory_

_My dear Major Clark….._

"We're going to be married," Betsy said to herself as she frowned. She shook her head and rolled her eyes. "I should call him _by his name_ if I am to be his wife."

The girl took another piece of paper, and restarted the letter.

_Dear George…._

/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/

_If you want to fuck the girl, then have at it! _Tavington's crude but direct words had haunted Hugh Bordon for days. They tormented him exceptionally the past few hours.

The dragoon second in command spent the greater part of the day in his room after Miss Burwell had attended his wound. He had bathed; shaved; ate. He had written his official report detailing the Marburgh raid and subsequent skirmish. Colonel Tavington had visited him in his room. The commander wasn't overly upset that Bordon's detachment had failed to wrest the foodstuffs out of the rebel sympathizers hands. At least they had secured—well, blown up—the gunpowder.

Captain Bordon retired early this evening, needing the rest. The man was tired from riding hard for two days. He was weakened somewhat, as well, from the amount of blood loss after the injury sustained during the skirmish early that morning.

The officer was confident that he would fall into slumber a moment after his head hit the pillow. No use. Sleep eluded him. He turned from side to side only messing the sheets up.

The captain sat up in his bed, his mind a maze. The thoughts trapped within ran the network of passages, rounded the blind corners, faltering at the dead ends, unable to find the way out. He kept seeing himself and Miss Burwell in the parlor, overwhelmed by the situation at the time: feeling nearly helpless as the girl mended his wound; being close to the girl with his shirt off; glimpsing _her_ stealthy glances at his naked torso; the touch of her soft hands on his chest, occasionally brushing over his nipple; the girl's finger tips grazing his skin lightly; the nearness of her; the scent of flowers in her hair; the fact that she was a young, pretty, virginal girl, innocent in a girlish way, ripe to be picked; how it was all too much for the man; how he wanted to kiss her badly at that moment; how boldness possessed him.

Then Hugh Bordon recalled the other night, holding the girl as she wept, remembering again that he hadn't held a woman in his arms since Sarah. He reminded himself as well that the last woman he comforted was _also_ his late wife.

Hating to admit it, Hugh liked feeling the girl's willowy body in his arms; consoling her and how her lithe frame shook against him as she sobbed. Or maybe he just liked, and missed, holding _any_ woman in his arms that he had any inkling of concern for. He didn't kiss or hold any of the whores he patronized—that is except as necessary to hold the doxy up against a wall in some standing position of a rushed sexual encounter.

Still, the captain's mind wandered on. He looked at the door, wishing he could see through it, out into the hallway and then through Miss Burwell's door and into her room. He wondered if the girl was sleeping. Could she after how shocked he had left her today?

The failure to feel Betsy's lips on his and taste her sweet cherubic mouth left him aching now. There was that familiar, warm nagging in his groin, and a swelling beneath the sheets. The officer pushed his hand under the covers hoping to alleviate those feelings. He stroked his semi rigid cock twice then stopped. Masturbation would not sate the man tonight.

The man had to do something else about it—NOW.

"Damn it!" swore Hugh. The officer tore the sheets back and popped out of bed. The captain quickly pulled on his breeches and shirt, his wound hurting a bit as he stretched his body into the clothing.

The second in command paused only a moment to down the rest of a snifter of brandy from earlier then slipped his boots on. His hair down and long, hanging as loose as his shirt tail, both swaying as he stalked toward the door. The man passed through it, shutting it with a mild thud.

Once in the hallway, Captain Bordon stood, a man seeking to silence his commander's terse words echoing in his thoughts, wanting to calm the sensual thoughts of women in his mind, and in desperate need of manly relief.


	20. Chapter 19: Relief

**Hi dear readers,**

**As usual, sorry for not posting sooner. You all know how it is: real life has to be dealt with first. **

**Now, I have a question for you all. I am floored by how many hits I have on my traffic counter on this site for a chapter in this story: Chapter 12 Bordon's Diplomacy. This particular chapter has 3-4 times as many hits/views more than any of the other chapters in this piece. I'm trying to figure out why. I guess as the author, I am not sure what is so special about the chapter because it is basically conversations between Bordon and Betsy to establish character, events unfolding, etc, or I guess that is how I look at it. But for some reason, you readers are reading, re-reading, and devouring that particular chapter. Why? I would love to know! If you have a minute, drop me a private message and let me know why you like that chapter and keep re-reading it.**

**Thanks and enjoy!**

**JScorpio**

Chapter 19: Relief

The minute Betsy heard Captain Bordon's door shut, she perked up. The young lady froze in her seat, not moving, not even breathing. She wondered what the officer was doing.

The girl turned her head cautiously to the side, looking at the wood of her door, wishing she could see through it. She imagined the captain standing in the hallway, looking at her chambers and pondering.

Miss Burwell wondered what his intentions were. The moment shared between them hours before was so intense. Her thoughts flitted about like butterflies in her head. _I should have let him do it. I wonder what it is like to kiss a man? He is very handsome. I shouldn't have stopped him. Why was I so afraid of one little kiss?_

Betsy sat up straight, breathing heavily. She knew the man was hesitating in the hallway as she had heard no steps going away. The girl wondered what he would do, hoping that he might come into her room and make good on the faltered kiss.

Then, she heard footsteps, loudly, then fading away. He'd walked away, down the hallway, obviously to pursue other interests. Betsy was disappointed after acting the part of the infatuated young girl all day long; thinking, wondering; imagining.

Maybe, if she hurried fast she could catch him. Betsy bolted from her desk, flying to her door, which she tore open. She leaned into the hall, looking both ways. It was empty.

The young lady sighed in dismay as she leaned against the doorframe. Her feelings were so conflicted. She had never been kissed before, yet deferred her chance today. The girl was engaged to a handsome officer who might as well be a million miles away, and an equally as dashing enemy officer, so near her in her own home, had made an advance to her.

Betsy barely knew George Clark, her father's chosen fiancé for her. However, the girl was getting to know Captain Bordon well. He protected her, guided her, and she was learning to trust him.

Miss Burwell reluctantly pulled herself away from the doorframe after a moment, certain that the British officer wasn't coming back. She sulked across her room to the window, wanting some fresh air. As she pushed it open further, she smiled as she noticed Bordon walking across the lawn. Betsy lingered there, hoping he would look up and see her. The girl continued to watch him stalking across the green, moving somewhere with a purpose.

She sat down on the window seat, and watched him disappear into the darkness, her feelings deflating and dropping into the pit of her stomach. Betsy heaved a sigh, realizing that the officer was heading toward the tents of the camp followers.

/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/

"Deal you in, Captain?"

Hugh Bordon lingered at the door of the tent, looking at Major Brackin and Captain Huxley of the infantry, sitting at the table with Cornet Kidwell of the dragoons. Cards and drinks were spread out before them.

"A little later," the dragoon second in command answered Brackin. "I have something to take care of first. I'll be back in a bit."

Bordon turned on his heel and hurried away. A silent look of knowing passed between the three officers. The trio snickered, having a good idea of why their friend had rushed off.

"No doubt an itch that only a woman can scratch," Huxley smirked as he fanned his cards out in his hand.

Hugh hurried quickly toward the camp follower's tents, anxious to procure some female company. As he rounded the corner of the cattle barn, he crossed the path of Miss Violet, one of the whores.

"Fancy some company, captain?" she asked, tilting her head, smiling lasciviously at the man.

"Yes," he answered. Bordon fished some coins from his pocket then placed them into the upturned palm of the prostitute.

The woman was older, in her mid forties, but still shapely and pretty. She knew Captain Bordon to be from one of the wealthiest families in England and was _always_ glad and _very willing_ to make herself available to take his money.

"My tent," she said as she reached for his hand. Before she could touch him, the woman found herself being shoved face first into the wall. The area was dark and was good a place as any to calm the officer's ache.

"Anxious, sir?" she asked as she reached downward to pull up her skirts.

"Yes!" he exclaimed in a whisper as he undid his breeches. "Do your job and take care of me!"

"Certainly sir," the doxy answered as she finished securing her skirts above her waist. The harlot, still facing the wall, put her hands on it at chest level, bracing herself against it.

In an instant, the officer lobbed his stiffness into her with a hard jolt, taking the experienced woman's breath away.

"Oh, Captain," she moaned in obligatory pleasure.

As Hugh rutted into the whore, he felt the throbbing of the wound on his chest. That reminded him of his encounter with the Burwell girl hours ago. He closed his eyes, imagining a kiss with that young lady.

His breath was against the shell of the prostitute's ear, his body pinioning her to the wall. Hugh was lost for a moment, his mind forming an image of Betsy Burwell beneath him on the couch in the drawing room of her house—the same one he had reclined on as she had sewn his wound. In his mind, the officer had succeeded in kissing the girl, innocently at first, then she had accepted his eager tongue within her mouth. After a kiss filled moment, the man had soon found himself atop the innocent girl, her skirts resting on her thighs. Bordon, positioned between her spread legs, eased himself into the girl's virgin sheath, making her wince in pain.

"Oh, Captain, your cock is SOOOOO hard," Miss Violet, the bawd, mewled.

"Quiet!" Captain Bordon shushed, the woman's voice disturbing the fantasy of Miss Burwell that raged inside the man's head.

The officer continued on, heaving his hardness in and out of the doxy, bracing himself as well, against the wall, his hands on it on either side of her hands. And again, he closed his eyes, now trying to fantasize about some intimate encounter with his late wife, Sarah. And as he did, his paid companion once again ruined it.

"Sir… oh….you will surely give me my pleasure," she cried, feigning joy at the feeling of the soldier within her.

"Silence, for Christ's sake!" he whispered menacingly through gritted teeth. Hugh quickly decided not to force his imaginings and instead, concentrate on the feeling of his yard inside this woman.

After a moment, the woman moaned again, making the dragoon leader sigh in a sort of defeat. He couldn't fantasize or even concentrate on any physical feelings with that strumpet bellowing fake appreciation. And he was certain that she had warbled the same words to her previous customers of the evening. Bordon pulled himself from the woman, releasing a frustrated breath.

"Bloody Hell! Am I to have no relief tonight?" he swore to himself, running his hand through his ginger locks.

The whore turned around, facing the man as she pushed her skirts down. She was concerned, afraid that he would ask for his money back since she didn't bring him to completion.

"Have you been drinking, sir?" she inquired, knowing that alcohol could inhibit a man's 'performance'.

"No, but I damn well intend to before the night is over," he spat, pent up frustration lacing his every word.

Violet the prostitute reached out, taking hold of the officer's arms. She turned him gently around toward the wall of the barn, changing places with him.

"I can take care of your ache, sir," she cajoled. The woman then knelt on the ground before him tugging his breeches back down slightly.

Bordon sighed and leaned back against the wall as he felt the woman's mouth close around his still hardened member. The captain closed his eyes, letting his head drop back, reveling in the feeling of the whore's mouth on him. He was finally able to lose himself in the moment.

The officer soon came, letting out a nearly inaudible groan of relief as he did. The man hitched his breeches back up, anxious to get on to playing some cards. He thanked then bid farewell to the woman and began to walk away.

"Uh…Captain," the whore called after him.

He turned about to face the woman. She was standing there, holding her arm out, palm upturned, obviously wanting money.

"I _already_ paid you," Bordon reminded her in an irritated tone.

She waggled her fingers at him, saying nothing, smiling wantonly.

He finally understood. "More?!" Hugh questioned, flustered at her insistence and gall.

"I _did_ suck your cock," Violet insisted.

"Since when did whores start charging by the act?" the officer asked as he searched his pockets for more change. He couldn't give her all his money, he thought. After all, he would need some coins for the card game.

"When men need more….urging….and effort," she answered, as she closed her fingers around the sovereign placed upon her palm.

"That's highway robbery," Bordon objected with a scowl.

"No. It's a living," the woman replied. "Goodnight captain."

The officer said nothing more, glaring at the woman as she turned and walked away. He rolled his eyes then headed toward his card game.

/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/

Captain Bordon looked at his pocket watch with bleary eyes, trying hard to focus. It was a little bit past two in the morning, and the alcohol was beginning to work its way through his system, warming his limbs and numbing his thoughts. The officer steadied himself before ascending the stairway to his room, holding the liquor bottle securely in his hand. He hadn't won any money at cards earlier, but a fine bottle of confiscated whiskey had been wagered, and he'd been just the gent to win it.

After paddling quietly up the stairs and down the hall, he stopped at the door to his chamber, noticing that Miss Burwell's door was open. With the alcohol making him feel daring, he peeked slowly into her room. The captain saw the girl asleep, her head down on the desk. The candle there had burned down completely, leaving only the one in the wall sconce by the door flickering. The man padded silently across the room to where Betsy slept.

At the desk, he could see that she had fallen asleep while writing a letter, for the quill lay in her relaxed fingers. He softly removed it from her hand and deposited it back into the ink well. Then he gently picked the young lady up into his arms and carried her to her bed. The officer laid her there delicately, pulling her blanket over her. Tipsy from the whiskey, Hugh Bordon hovered over her for a moment, staring down at her sleeping form.

_I could have her now, he thought_._ She'd probably scream, we'd be caught and I'd get into trouble._ Then he remembered how quickly she had rebuffed his advance. _Why should I want her, this little chit? I only care for her because she is of value as a prisoner and has to be protected. I've no romantic designs on the girl. If I did bed her, it would be purely for the destruction of her virtue, and my own satisfaction._

He chided himself, even under the effects of the liquor, at making an advance at this young girl. But he had no desire for it now, having been satisfied this evening. Bordon turned, and left the room, silently closing the door behind him.

Stepping across the hall, Hugh entered his own quarters, not bothering to light a candle. With his eyes adjusted to the dark, he quickly found a glass, and poured himself another drink of his prize. The officer shrugged off his shirt, then stepped over to the bureau. In the moonlight, he quickly located a miniature portrait of his late wife and son. He sat on the bed, staring intently at it, unable to see it clearly in the dark, but knowing it by heart. The captain had memorized every bit of the painting of Sarah and Robbie. He knew what he was looking at although he could barely see the thing in the darkness.

"Sarah. Robbie," he lamented in a murmur, "My God I miss you both so much." With that, he took a long, deep drink of the golden liquid. He closed his eyes and sighed as he remembered how excited both he and Sarah had been at the news of her second pregnancy. She died with that baby inside of her, often leaving Hugh to wonder if she had carried a boy or girl.

Captain Bordon felt the familiar sorrow welling up within him, gripping his heart. The tightening grew in his throat, and the pain of grief consumed him. The man quelled the pain with the closest medicine at hand: his whiskey.

/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/

Betsy stepped outside the hospital tent, quickly organizing the chaotic bundle of material in her arms. She dropped the soiled dressings into an empty bucket on the ground near the tent flap, then folded the injured soldiers' ripped garments over her arm. The girl picked up the pail and headed toward the out kitchen.

At the door of the kitchen building, Mrs. Leyanova, Miriam, and Pansy were busily preparing food. Betsy immediately smelled the strong odor of onions being chopped at the table. That was no reprieve from the pungent scent of medicinal herbs that had permeated the hospital tent.

She spoke from the doorway. "Dressings to be washed," the girl said, nodding to the wooden bucket in her right hand. "Redcoat clothes to be laundered and mended," Miss Burwell informed, lifting her left arm displaying the blood soiled garments torn and dirtied during the skirmish.

Mrs. Leyanova, stirring the pot boiling in the fireplace, looked up quickly. "Leave them by the door," the older servant woman answered. "I'll assign someone to them."

Betsy nodded wearily as she set the pail down just inside the doorway. The young woman doubled the garments over quickly, placing them on a nearby bench.

As she turned to go, Mrs. Leyanova called to her. "Are you going to the house, missy?"

The girl stopped in the doorway, turning about. "Yes," she replied, surprised that the Russian woman had stopped tending the pot at the fireplace and was now within arm's reach of her.

"Take this with you," the servant said, pressing a small glass bottle into Betsy's hand. "I suspect Captain Bordon will be needing it this morning."

Miriam and Pansy snickered knowingly at each other. They quickly hushed and went back to their duties when Mrs. Leyanova shot them a stern look.

"Is he in the office?" Betsy inquired.

"No. I'm sure he's still in bed," the Russian servant answered. "Be careful when you go in there. The maids say he upset some furniture and there is broken glass lying about."

"Yes Ma'am," answered Miss Burwell.

Betsy strolled slowly toward the house. The thought of seeing Captain Bordon again both thrilled and terrified her. As she plodded along, her mind twisted in circles as she recalled being so startled at the officer's advance, no notion that it was imminent. Yet wondering about it afterward made her realize that the man was handsome, and left her wondering what a kiss was like. Though she was afraid of what may transpire between the two of them when they crossed paths again. Would he try it again? Would it be awkward? Would they act as if nothing had happened?

Before she knew it, she was standing outside of the dragoon officer's door. Betsy drew in a deep breath, held it an instant, then let it out. Then she knocked on the door.

No response.

After a moment, she knocked again.

Again, no answer.

Quietly, the girl turned the doorknob, letting herself into the second in command's chambers. She was only mildly surprised at the sight. From Mrs. Leyanova's words, the girl had conjured an image of total destruction in the man's quarters.

In actuality, parts of his uniform lay about the room on the floor. A chair was upset, lying on its back. An empty whiskey bottle lay on its side on the nightstand. What was a glass had been shattered on the floor. Betsy, who had fallen asleep wondering where Captain Bordon had hurried off to, had her answer. The mess in the room and the headache medicine in her hand told her the officer had gotten drunk.

She tiptoed through the clutter and over to the man's bedside. The girl absently started picking clothes up from the floor as she walked, laying them over her arm. Betsy froze in her tracks when Bordon turned over in the bed and groaned.

Betsy stood watching him as he roused. He moaned in obvious pain. His eyes were scrunched shut, his face contorted in 'morning after' agony, as his hand went up to massage his forehead.

The officer finally opened his eyes to the blurry image of someone standing in his room.

"Oh, Miss Burwell," he slurred, as his eyes adjusted to the light. Hugh's head was pounding and the light in the room pricked his eyeballs, feeling like dozens of pins and needles. His own body felt heavy to him as he pushed himself up to sitting.

The covers fell down to expose his naked torso. Betsy blushed again, even though she had just seen his bare chest yesterday as she'd sewn his wound. The girl pretended to look out the window when he caught her looking at him.

"Sorry to disturb you, sir," she apologized timidly. The girl held out her arm, displaying the bottle of powder clasped in her hand. "Mrs. Leyanova sent me up with some Ward's for your head."

"Thank you," he answered, taking the small bottle from her hand.

"I'm sorry for the mess," he apologized. "I'll clean it up."

"I can send a servant up to help," offered Betsy as she laid his clothes down at the foot of the bed. As Bordon prepared the concoction for his head, the girl continued tidying up what she could. Stepping toward his desk, she righted the chair that lay on the floor. As the young woman reached down to pick up the liquor bottle on the floor, she noticed a heart shaped locket.

The girl picked up the necklace as she retrieved the whiskey bottle. Staring for a moment at the jewelry and the glass container, she became angry. Betsy now knew that the man had had female company in his room while drinking last night.

The young lady spun around, looking accusingly at the ailing officer. "Really, Captain," she accused as she held up the locket, swinging on its chain. "You told me that you ordered the men to patronize the doxies at their tents; that they were not to bring them to the house!"

"Yes," he countered. "I _did_ order that." Hugh Bordon's head was throbbing even more now. He didn't feel like sparring with this teenaged girl and her smart, insolent mouth.

Betsy burned with ire. _He says that he orders the men to keep the prostitutes in the camp, yet he brings one into my house himself, she thought._

"So, which one does this necklace belong to," she asked curtly. "I'll see that she gets it back."

The captain, sitting up in bed, reached his long arm out and yanked the chain from the girl's hand. "It's my wife's!"

Miss Burwell was aghast. She suddenly felt stupid and embarrassed. The girl had pined for another chance of a kiss from this man yesterday, after he had tried and she had refused him. Then she spent all day wondering about him, dreaming the day away thinking about the handsome officer. Betsy was sorry that she had wasted her time on this silly schoolgirl infatuation with a married officer that obviously patronized whores.

"Thank you for the Ward's. You can leave now," the officer dismissed sharply.

Betsy, still stunned, turned and walked to the door. The young lady stopped and turned back toward the officer. Feeling betrayed, she let her words spill out. "I trusted you. You have helped and protected me. I thought you cared for your prisoners, but you are no different than the other officers!"

"What do you mean?" Bordon was befuddled by the girl's actions and words, which only added to his pounding head.

"I have heard the rumors about what has happened to local women at the hands of you redcoats," she began, her voice rising. "You made an advance to me then you patronized a harlot both on the same day! All this, and you have a wife at home!"

With that, Betsy cared not to look upon the man anymore. To her, a man she had come to trust, she thought him as horrid to women as Colonel Tavington. The girl turned abruptly and left in a huff, slamming the door behind her.

Hugh, ailing with a hangover, reclined back onto his bed. He closed his eyes and sighed, only wanting some rest. The man could deal with the impudent and confused Miss Burwell later.

/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/

In the late afternoon of the same day, Captain Hugh Bordon finally felt well enough to get up. And though his head still ached slightly from the alcohol the night before, he knew a walk in the fresh air would help that. He had to lead the night patrol in a few hours and needed a clear mind to do that.

As the officer strolled about the green, he spotted the Burwell girl sitting under a tree over to the side beyond the outbuildings. She was seated on a blanket, her sewing basket and a pile of clothes stacked next to her.

Bordon swallowed hard. He decided to clear the air between them now, as obviously the girl was ignorant of a few things. As he neared the blanket, the girl was busily mending clothes and took no notice of the officer.

"Good afternoon, Miss Burwell," he greeted cautiously.

The girl gasped, startled at the man's intrusion. "Captain," she acknowledged coldly, not wishing to speak to the redcoat officer. Betsy went back to her sewing, not looking at the dragoon adjutant, half hoping he would go away. She thought him no more than a rakehell.

"I'd like a word with you, please," Bordon requested.

_Clever of him, she thought._ She was sitting on the blanket, swimming in her sewing, garments spread about. Not as if she could quickly run from him. "Yes sir," she replied, putting her mending down in her lap, but still refusing to accord him a look.

"As an officer of His Majesty's army," Hugh began in a haughty voice, "I don't have to disclose anything to a prisoner."

Betsy's lips drew tight, as she tried to hold in an indignant huff. _Lecturing me again, she thought. Always reminding me of my place. Telling me how I do not deserve to know anything._

"However," he continued on, his tone softening, "as an honorable gentleman, I owe you an explanation…..and an apology."

Betsy looked questioningly up at the officer. She now focused her attention on the dragoon leader, curious at this rare display of humility.

"The locket you found _was_ my wife's," he confirmed. "She is dead, and so is my son."

Miss Burwell was stunned. The young lady supposed that his wife had stayed behind to live at their home in England. She now felt terribly that she assumed that the jewelry had belonged to a prostitute.

"I'm sorry," she said in a quiet voice, truly humbled by her own wrong assumptions.

"Thank you," the captain replied. "They have been gone two years now. I keep the locket with me always."

"Oh," Betsy nodded. She looked down at her folded hands in her lap, still ashamed.

The officer clasped his hands behind his back, looking official, and paced a couple of steps. He stopped, then gazed thoughtfully out over the lawn before going on.

"I did not have a doxy in my room last evening," he defended. "My only companion was a bottle of whiskey, I assure you. I gave you my word that the bawds would stay down amongst the camp followers, and that _is_ indeed where they conduct their business—_not_ in the main house."

Betsy now knew how wrong she was, that the captain had been alone indeed and that the mess in his room was caused by his drinking. She was silently grateful to hear that whores were not being brought into her home. The young lady nodded mutely, a slight smile on her lips, quietly showing the officer that she understood and appreciated him keeping his promise.

"However," he continued on, "we have talked about how things are different during a time of war, and that men have needs. If I, or any officer or soldier here chooses to patronize one of the prostitutes, it is done discreetly and is no one's affair."

Miss Burwell looked away, distressed and blushing at the subject matter. Her pride stung a bit as well as the officer's scolding was only thinly disguised.

"And as for the rumors you have heard about the King's soldiers with local women," he began, carefully having to spin a lie, "they are just that—rumors only. His Majesty's soldiers conduct themselves as gentlemen always."

Betsy was confounded. She could not erase the image of Colonel Tarleton assaulting the blacksmith's daughter, though viewed as only a brief glimpse when she was trying to escape the dragoons weeks ago, from her mind.

"But that day you captured me," she objected cautiously, doling her words out slowly, "I saw Colonel Tarleton—"

The captain cut her off immediately. He knew damned well at the mere mention of Commander Tarleton's name that _some_ kind of mischief with a female villager must have gone on in town that day, and that Miss Burwell witnessed it. Banastre was a braggart and his record of misdeeds with colonial women and rebels stained him like rust on metal. Still, Bordon, as a subaltern to both lieutenant colonels of the legion, refused to expose his superior's wrongdoings to _any_ Yankee.

"Are you absolutely sure of whatever it was you saw?" the dragoon second in command asked in an attempt to befuddle the young woman. "Eyes can deceive, tricked by the mind or other situations."

"I….well…uh," Betsy stammered, uncertain of whether or not to pursue her accusation of Colonel Tarleton.

Bordon stood by silently, letting her be confused, and think over what she thought she saw. The girl wisely chose to drop the subject, assuming that these men would close ranks on her no matter what. She was beginning to understand that the British officers were a sort of exclusive boys' club; a brotherhood in which they are sworn to each other.

She looked at the captain, a combination of innocence, confusion, and shame in her eyes.

"You should not believe _anything_ you hear," the captain advised of rumors, "and only half of what you see."

Again, Betsy nodded silently.

The officer went on. "And lastly, Miss Burwell, about the advance I made to you yesterday."

The girl stared up at him anxiously. "It was rude of me. I should not have done it and apologize for my action. It meant nothing. It was a forward gesture which put you in an awkward position as mistress of the house and for being betrothed to another man. The colonel and I have advised our men and other soldiers that lodge here to treat this farm's women respectfully. My actions must set a good example for the men which is part of being a commander."

Betsy was torn momentarily. She was secretly disappointed that his desire to kiss her actually meant nothing; that he had no romantic feelings toward her. Yet she felt relieved that the air had been cleared between them. Mostly, she felt happy that the officer respected her enough to apologize for his rakish actions.

"I hope you will forgive me," Hugh asked, looking down at her. His head cocked to the side, his face silently making this humble request.

"Of course," she answered simply.

"Thank you," Bordon said. "I'll leave you to your mending. Good day."

As he turned to walk away, Betsy burned with a curiosity of her own. "Captain," she called after the man.

"Yes?"

"How did they die, if I may ask?"

The officer stopped, first looking up to the Heavens, then down at the ground. He took in a deep breath then let it out slowly, pushing his personal pain down inside of his being as far as possible. The masculinity within him needed for him to sound steady as he spoke; not to be some blubbering idiot, though his pain and grieving was completely legitimate.

"Sarah, my wife," he began haltingly, "was carrying our second child. She was six months along. I was away on an assignment with the cavalry. She wanted to visit her sister before she was confined and unable to travel."

Betsy listened silently, interested in what the officer said of himself. Usually, it was_ she_ who was being compelled—or coerced—to give _him_ information. He was good at coaxing it out of her as part of his intelligence duties. But this time, _he_ let _his_ guard down a bit and spoke of himself, and the girl was curious at what this supremely dutiful, stern yet diplomatic captain had to impart.

The dragoon leader went on. "She took our son Robbie, who was two, with her to visit her sister. There was an outbreak of Cholera in that village. Sarah and Robbie fled home quickly, but both were sick by the time they returned. I received word and hurried home."

Hugh stopped, standing there, quietly, thoughtfully, painfully; obviously still haunted. The girl could tell that the man still grappled with his grief, and was trying now as a dignified gentleman to keep it in check before his prisoner.

"They both died within hours of my arrival."

"I'm so sorry, Captain. You must miss them so."

"Yes. Every day," he replied forlornly. "I often wonder about our second child, the one she was carrying. I'll never know if we were to have another son, or a daughter."

His words reminded Betsy of several miscarriages and still births of siblings that she had lived through, how painful it was for her mother and father. A moment of silence passed between the two, both of them reflecting on the deaths of loved ones in recent years.

"We have both had our shares of grief," she commented.

"Yes," Bordon agreed, "and the grieving never stops. But it evolves with time, as does how we deal with the hurt of it."

"You're so wise, captain," she said, smiling up at him.

"No. Just burdened with worldly pain," answered the officer. "Duty beckons. I take my leave of you, Miss Burwell."

"Good evening, sir," Betsy bid as the man walked away. The girl went back to her sewing, amazed at having learned part of the intimate past of one of her redcoat captors.


	21. Chapter 20: Troubling News

**Hi-I hope everyone had nice holidays. I apologize, as usual, for not updating sooner. I assure you that this story is always on my mind and so is proper updating of it, but I can't always get to it. Again, sorry.**

**Alright, the first part of this chapter features a character speaking in French to another. It has been 30 years since I've had conversational French in school, so I am rusty at it. I relied on memory and some other sources for help. I hope I have the words right. If you are French or speak it fluently and I don't have it right, please send me a private message thru this site and I'll be glad to correct it. For those who don't speak French, you can probably guess what the woman is saying given the circumstances in the scene.**

**Enjoy!**

Chapter 20: Troubling News

"Oh, baise moi, Major!"

The young woman's body hungrily lapped up the militia leader's touch. She moaned lustily in her own language with occasional words of appreciation in English. The lady relished having a man between her legs again, especially the strapping and handsome George Rogers Clark, who was making a name for himself in the Northwest Territory defending the frontier. The women there gossiped of his prowess in bed, which made him infamous in more discrete conventions.

"Tu est tres bien," she wimpered as he thrust heartily into her.

Major Clark and his militia were on furlough in the small, fortified village of Logan's Station in Kentucky. After supper, George had the opportunity to converse with Anna Calaise, a French fur trader's wife. He found out that the couple was from St. Genevieve on the Mississippi River and that the woman had accompanied her husband to Kentucky as he trapped for a month. They took up temporary lodgings at the station for protection. Mr. Calaise, the trapper, just happened to be out for a few days, somewhere in the animal rich wilderness and the girl was lonely for a man's affections. Clark wasted no time propositioning the girl, and she was equally as fast at bounding into his bed.

"Profundement, s'il vous plait," she pleaded earnestly as her legs, wrapped about the man's waist, tightened against him.

"Pousser fort!" the girl begged as Clark heaved his hardness into her, breathing heavily as he did, trying to hold himself back. It had been weeks since he'd been with a woman.

George had only a limited grasp on the language of French, knowing only a handful of words. That small bit was just enough to be able to say a few things to the large population of French in the Northwest Territory—an adequate supply to get him through a basic conversation with the Francais trappers and traders when a translator wasn't available. He understood nothing of what the girl beneath him spewed out in French, but he assumed she was goading him on. Clark was sorry to be missing her crude and passionate affectations to him but was more regretful that the woman was so vocal, making him afraid that they would be discovered.

"En silence, chere," he murmured in his best French.

Anna, the trapper's wife, shifted her hips beneath the man, desperately trying to find a slightly different angle to receive him, one that may satisfy her more.

"Oh, ne pas arreter," she begged, moving her hips up now, meeting his thrusts.

The officer opened his eyes and stared at the lovely creature below him. Her blonde hair, so light that it looked nearly white, was messed up and wild upon the pillow. The young woman's face was contorted in airy joy, her eyes closed and lips parted. George, holding himself up on his elbows, slowed his rutting to languid, deep pushes, fighting against himself to not go back to his former, fast rhythm.

He watched as the girl's hands shamelessly massaged her own breasts, pinching the tips into hardened pink puckers. Indeed Anna kneaded the orbs, trying to quell the tension she felt within them since the officer had momentarily paid no heed to them.

After a moment, her left hand moved from its task toward Clark's head. She wove her fingers into his unruly copper locks, and coaxed his head to her chest. Once there, she presented him with her right breast, plumping it in her hand, bringing his mouth and her nipple to an inevitable meeting. The officer's lips caught the hardened peak between them and sucked the bud sharply.

The girl gasped and writhed at this, arching her back as he continued suckling strongly on her nipples. As the French woman cooed gratefully below him, he whispered a command.

"Monter," he directed softly in his best French.

The girl opened her eyes and smiled up at him, answering, "Oui."

He hoped she understood his request, but when she hesitated a moment, he ceased his attention to her breasts. Holding the girl tightly, he turned onto his back on the bed, taking the girl with him. George pushed himself up and back to where he reclined against the pillows gathered next to the head board. Anna, now sitting up with the major, kissed the man, then rose up onto her hands and knees, turned, and straddled the major's lap. Facing away from him, she let her body slip back down on him, glad to be impaled on his stiff prick again.

Clark was glad to rest a moment and let her take over. "Tu est plus solide," she bellowed as she propelled herself up and down upon his cock. His hands came to rest on her hips, forcing her down, burying himself within her silky wetness.

"Mon Dieu," bellowed Anna, as she arched her back, pleasure flowing through her.

George moved forward and murmured in her ear. "En Anglais, s'il vous plait."

"Excusez," she apologized in a rasp, not interrupting her rhythm.

"Oh, tres bien!" she groaned.

Clark chuckled, knowing enough French to know her words were a compliment. She had drawled so much in her native tongue in the last few moments that he was sure that she was giving him a French lesson in addition to the fucking.

The militia commander held the girl's hips firmly as she rode up and down on his hardness, not wanting her to come off him during the enthusiastic encounter. He didn't resist when Anna took his hands and guided them around to her front side. The young woman placed his left hand on her left breast, where he immediately began plumping it and rolling the puckered tip. She put his right hand in her lap. At her coaxing, he pushed his hand into her crotch, his fingers sliding over the slick folds of flesh. The officer quickly located her womanly pearl, rimming it with his fingers. She squealed in delight as his digits worked the bundle of nerves deftly.

"Oh Major," she bellowed, "Mon Dieu!" The pretty blonde continued to grind her body in ecstasy upon the warm lap of her bed partner.

And George, though enjoying the attentions of the girl in the privacy of his cramped quarters, tried to convince himself that her howls of appreciation were not loud enough to be heard outside the door. He had his doubts.

Major Clark was getting close to the edge, ready to lose himself. "I don't know how much longer I can last, chere," he informed breathily.

With that, the girl quickened her pace, ready for the man to let go. As she climbed higher, she cried out as she neared the edge of herself.

"Oui! OUI!", she gasped.

Then the two of them came together. Clark sighed in satisfaction as he spilled his seed into her.

With a hand still on the girl's breast and the other firmly tucked in her womanhood, he wished at that moment for a third hand to clamp over his companion's mouth. He wanted to silence the woman's ecstatic moans.

"_By God," George Clark thought to himself as the girl wailed while the orgasm waned, "her caterwauling is going to bring the whole fort. Then I'll have to explain why I'm in bed with the frenchman's wife!" _

The couple untangled themselves from one another and crawled beneath the covers. Mrs. Calaise huddled against the militia officer's body, seeking his warmth. Clark didn't push the young woman away as he shifted against the bed, his back longing for a comfortable spot. He finally found an agreeable dip in the mattress and settled in, folding his arms behind his head on the pillow.

Alas he only enjoyed his relaxation a moment when a knock at the door disturbed the quiet. "Major! Major Clark!" Captain Bowman called through the door.

George put a finger to his lips, motioning for his companion to stay quiet. She did stay silent, her mouth occupied with trailing kisses on his neck.

"Yes!" Clark answered. He let out a sigh as he felt the girl's hand massaging the inside of his left thigh. The officer closed his eyes, pleased that the young woman was ready for a second round of lovemaking. The man was all too happy to oblige her, glad that he still had youth and stamina.

He lifted Anna's chin, bringing her mouth to his. They kissed again in an unhurried manner, as if they had all night and forgetting that they had just been disturbed. The major sighed into her mouth as he felt her hand gripping his manhood, spent and still slick and sticky with her fluid. The officer became aroused again despite his adjutant standing on the other side of the door.

"George, a messenger is here," Joe informed.

Clark, busy with the French girl in his bed, wished his second in command would leave. "Give him quarters for the night," the commander yelled back as the girl nuzzled his shoulder with kisses. "I'll see him in the morning."

The captain wasn't easily deterred. "It's a Redcoat, here under a white flag," he insisted. "He says it's urgent!"

George heaved a breath of frustration. He took the wrist of the girl in his bed and gently pulled her hand from his groin. "I'll be there momentarily," Clark answered.

"Get up," he whispered to Mrs. Calaise. "You cannot stay here tonight."

The French fur trader's wife frowned. Both rose from the bed and began to dress. Clark was dressed quickly and out the door equally as fast.

George strode across the space to join his two captains, Bowman and Logan. They handed him a bundle of papers brought in by the redcoat private.

"Where is he?" Major Clark queried as he took the documents.

"Over there," Ben Logan answered, pointing toward the fire ring in the middle of the fort. George looked across the short distance at the young man who was warming himself, as one of the women was fixing some food for him.

He eyed the man with suspicion, always wary of the British. Then he glanced through the correspondence, finding a letter addressed to him from Colonel Harry Burwell. George was immediately suspect as to how mail to him had fallen into the hands of His Majesty's army. He supposed that a messenger had been detained and the mail intercepted, but hoped that the carrier hadn't really been a spy in the employ of the British. No matter what the situation, the fact that his personal correspondence was seized by the English and now delivered by a redcoat private was disconcerting to him, leaving a sour feeling in his being.

George picked up the letter from Colonel Burwell marked 'urgent', and began to read it. Ben and Joe looked on at him anxiously as he perused the note.

After a moment, he put it down and sighed. "I'm to be a husband," he stated in a startled voice.

"We knew that, George," Bowman said. "You told us a girl was promised to you."

"Yes, well now her father wants to waive a proper betrothal," Clark informed. "He says I can marry her as soon as I can get back east."

The two captains grinned and snickered at each other. They knew their handsome commander wouldn't be a bachelor for long. The women everywhere flocked to him. And lucky him, they thought. He would soon get to deflower his virginal bride, the pretty young Miss Burwell.

Clark stayed quiet as Ben and Joe laughed and joked. He picked up another letter and began reading it. In an instant, he scrunched his eyes closed, then opened them and looked at the missive once more, reading the first two lines over again.

The militia commander's hand dropped to the table top, the note still tucked in between his curled fingers. He stared down at the rough wood surface, silent as the words of the correspondence flip flopped through his mind. The captains stopped their kidding, knowing immediately that something wasn't right.

"What is it, George?" asked Logan, concerned.

Their leader raised the note again and read it aloud from the beginning.

"_As you have probably surmised, we intercepted Colonel Burwell's letter to you. However, we now have your pretty little fiancée in our custody. She will remain our prisoner until other arrangements can be made. Perhaps a deal can be reached. Maybe you would consider trading yourself for her? _

_As you think things over, remember that she is in danger. We cannot guarantee her safety. Nor can we promise that she will remain innocent. Indeed, she may come to your marital bed experienced in the ways of love, or maybe with a redcoat bastard in her belly."_

The captains looked down, embarrassed at having heard what the British may do to their commander's bride-to-be. They looked at Major Clark, who stood with the letters still clutched in his hands and an anguished countenance to him. Ben and Joe then exchanged looks and sighed, knowing George had a tough decision to make.

In an instant, and without discussing anything with his two adjutants, Clark walked to his cabin and closed the door. He sat down at his desk, took out a paper, dipped the quill and began to write without hesitation. After furiously scrolling his short reply to the British, he took a pinch of sand from the container and dropped it onto the paper to dry the ink. After a moment, he blew it off the paper then stood.

The major appeared again outside of his quarters, before his two bewildered captains. They needed to know what he had decided. They approached him, and he handed over his written reply without hesitation. After they looked over it, they thought their commander still in shock from the news and having just rashly written a response without truly thinking it through.

"Are you sure about this?" Joe inquired. "What of Miss Burwell?"

"They won't harm her, I'm certain of it." Anger laced George's voice as he spoke.

"Governor Hamilton and his men hurt the locals around here_ every_ day," Ben Logan protested.

"Yes, which is why we must stay here and fight for these good people," George proclaimed. The young major, used to being perpetually short of soldiers and supplies, was accustomed to making fast decisions and taking brash risks out of necessity. "If Betsy is their bargaining chip, then they won't chance harming her."

"You'd leave your future wife with the enemy?" Bowman questioned.

"Yes. She will be alive when the war is over," Clark declared. "My feeling is that they will try to strike a deal with her father, who is much closer in location than I. But as a commander, he won't relinquish his command for her, either. He will probably end up paying an inflated ransom for her instead."

"His Majesty's army is the richest in the world," argued Captain Bowman. "They don't need the money."

"I know," answered Major Clark. "But they do so love extorting money from wealthy planters. It seems to be one of their favorite methods of harassing and crippling the colonists."

George Rogers Clark was smug and confident of his decision. He looked ahead at the wall, as if he could see through it into the distance, possibly back to Virginia. His lips curved up into a crafty smile.

"Bring the messenger to me," he requested in a short voice.

He watched as Ben Logan motioned the young man over to them. The redcoat soldier approached cautiously, obviously trying to appear resolute.

"What's your name?" George inquired.

"Private Stamper, sir."

Clark handed him the brief, written reply, letting the young man read it. Stamper frowned and had the audacity to ask, "Are you sure you won't reconsider? I don't think my superiors will accept this."

With that, the red haired major's temper got the best of him, possessing his being. He grabbed the messenger by his jacket lapels and put the youthful soldier's back squarely against the wall.

"George! NO!," the two captains yelled together as they dove in to help. Clark looked intimidating, towering over the youth. Bowman and Logan struggled to pull the large commander away, but he was too strong for them.

"It's quite alright, gents," he said calmly, not taking his eyes off the British prey in his hands. "I have the situation under control."

The two adjutants backed away, knowing not to agitate their leader further. They watched carefully, ready to save the enemy private if they had to.

"Private, I don't care to change my mind," he hissed at the British soldier. "So let me make it perfectly clear what I have written."

"You go back to your redcoat commanders," growled George menacingly, "and you tell them that Major George Rogers Clark does not make deals with the British!"

/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/

A famished Captain Bordon sat down at the dining room table awaiting the cook to fix a quick meal for the officers that had arrived home in the last hour. In anticipation of his commander joining him, the aide de camp had spread a map out on the table and opened his field diary. Hugh and the dragoon leader would do as they usually did: recap their mission and route on the map and notes whilst still fresh in their memories, as they ate. This had become nearly a ritual for them.

The officer had enjoyed a sip of cold buttermilk. It was so tasty that he gulped down a second swallow, and found himself nearly choking on it as he heard Colonel Tavington's angry shouts pierced the air, interrupting Bordon's temporary solace.

"Oh, damn it all!" swore the captain as he put down the beverage. He listened carefully, trying to discern what the problem was and if he would need to get involved.

"Why wasn't I notified?!" yelled the dragoon leader. His voice carried down the stairway and out into the yard through the open windows.

"You weren't here!" a defensive voice retorted.

The dragoon second in command closed his eyes and sighed when he realized that his superior was going at it with the farm manager, Mr. Waldron. Hugh knew from both men's inabilities to find common ground that the confrontation would probably not end well.

Captain Bordon, ever the diplomat and peacemaker, rose from his seat and nearly kicked the chair over as he bolted from the dining room. The officer wiped the milk from his mouth as he ran into the house. The arguing went on as he made his way through the homestead and mounted the stairs.

"I _leave_ an officer in charge," the colonel screamed. "You should have cleared it with him!"

"It was urgent!" the overseer shot back.

Hugh reached the landing of the second floor, winded after taking the steps two at a time. He saw his commander and Mr. Waldron, standing in the middle of the hallway, squared off against one another.

"You _all_ know the rules," the dragoon leader countered. "No unauthorized civilians enter the plantation and no inhabitants leave without clearance!"

"She needed _that_ doctor!" Jake spat, pointing toward Miss Burwell's bedchamber.

Captain Bordon knew immediately that the situation involved the girl. Three days ago, before his detachment left, Betsy had taken to her bed, mildly ill. Mrs. Leyanova imparted to him that the late September heat had made the young lady sick, and she would be just fine with some rest.

Obviously the young woman had become more ill, which concerned the officer. He knew he had his hands full with his superior and the farm manager arguing, a valuable prisoner taken ill, and now a strange civilian was on the premises, as well. The legion didn't want any unauthorized people on the farm for fear of spying or some kind of covert plot. Hugh knew he needed to get to the bottom of the situation double quick.

"Our surgeon is tending her," William Tavington argued.

"Only when he isn't busy with redcoat soldiers," informed Waldron, "whose welfare is put before hers."

"He is following my orders!"

Bordon took a quick breath then moved into the middle of the argument. "Mr. Waldron, please go downstairs. I'll speak with you about this later."

The overseer nodded his head, leaving reluctantly. It was no secret that he—or any of the servants here—were happy at having to wait on and take orders from their new English masters.

The colonel continued to huff. "Not even back an hour and that damned farmhand—"

"Sir," Bordon interrupted in a calm voice, trying to soothe his hothead commander, "Sir. Let me find out the details."

"That doctor may be spying," Tavington said in a low, angry voice as he pointed at the Burwell girl's door.

"Yes, I understand," assured the adjutant.

The cavalry adjutant paused a moment, hoping his commander would take a breath and calm down. The colonel did just that and Bordon was relieved to have diffused the situation.

He went on, an expert in distraction, diverting his leader's attention elsewhere. "They are serving our dinner downstairs. The map and my notes are already spread out on the table. I'll assess the situation here and join you in the dining hall afterward with a full report."

Tavington heaved a sigh, then bowed his head to his subaltern. "My thanks, Captain."

Bordon watched his superior leave the hallway, glad that William had relented. Hugh breathed his own sigh of relief as he gripped the doorknob. The officer rapped on the door, then let himself in.

Once in Miss Burwell's room, he was confronted with a disconcerting sight. The young woman was delirious and thrashing about on the bed. A strange doctor was wiping the girl down, trying to soothe her.

"I'm Captain Bordon, His Majesty's Green Dragoons," he announced as he neared the bed.

"I'm Doctor Sweeney, from the village," the man answered. "I'm sorry Captain. I had no idea my presence would cause such trouble."

"Our surgeon was seeing to her," Bordon advised.

"I understand," Sweeney replied as he wrung water from a cloth in a basin by the bed. "He was doing a fine job."

Hugh reached out cautiously touching Miss Burwell's flushed cheek. She jerked her head to the other side of the pillow, moaning as she did.

"Shhh," the doctor whispered as he dabbed the sweat from her forehead. An instant later, the girl quieted, mercifully fainting.

The officer put his hand on the girl's forehead. His eyes widened when he felt how hot she was, even after just having a cold rag against it. He thought the young lady had a strong constitution and that she was having a mild spell of heat sickness. Bordon was truly alarmed at just how sick the girl had become in three days.

"Mrs. Leyanova told us that she was only a bit weak," he muttered, gazing down in frank concern at the girl.

"She worsened, so they sent for me," the doctor admitted. "I've cared for members of this family for years."

Sweeney pulled the blanket down leaving only a sheet on the girl. He was doing his best to cool the young woman off, hoping her fever might break. "This is the worst she has ever been with this disease."

Captain Bordon looked across the room at the doctor, question clouding his handsome features. He was confused at Doctor Sweeney's comment, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Has no one told you?"

The officer said nothing, only nodding in query at the village physician. "She has Malaria," he informed the dragoon. "Contracted when she was a child."

"She's _still_ only a child," Hugh opined in a worried voice.

"Of course," Sweeney agreed. "She was age ten at infection. Nearly died. She continues to have relapses of these malarial fevers, usually once a year." The doctor went on to explain to the officer about the condition; describing the internal pain, severe aches in the muscles and the joints, nausea, fever, chills, vomiting.

Bordon had seen soldiers in the throes of Malaria and Yellow Fever and knew just how bad it could be. A handful of dragoons had succumbed to the two conditions in the months that Hugh had been in the cavalry.

"Poor girl is bad off this time," Doctor Sweeney admitted. "This is the worst I've seen her. The servants agree."

"Is she going to die?" the captain asked as he sank down into a chair next to the bed.

The physician stopped what he was doing, staring down at his sick patient. Then he lifted his head and looked at the officer, seriousness etched in his countenance.

"I don't know," he answered. "She's deathly ill. I've given her as much quinine as I could. Give her anymore and it will poison her and kill her quicker than the fever would."

"I've done as much as I can do for her," the doctor informed as he began to pack his case to leave. "I apologize again for the ruckus my presence has caused."

"No. It was a misunderstanding," the dragoon officer replied, his voice hesitant. Seeing this young, healthy, vibrant youth near death had shaken him to the core. "I'll clear it up."

Bordon stared forlornly again down at Miss Burwell. When he looked up, he saw the doctor at the door, bag in hand ready to leave.

"You can continue to see her for the duration of the illness," the cavalry captain announced. "I'll see to it that you will have free access to come and go as needed. I will give you a pass to cross our lines, and I'll advise our guards to let you in. You will have no trouble."

Captain Bordon knew this was the right thing to do. In just a few moments with the man, he deemed him a legitimate physician and not a spy. He also knew that this man, having treated the family members for years, knew the girl better than the dragoon surgeon did. Sweeney could devote some time to treating the woman, as the regiment's doctor had orders that their men came first.

"My thanks. I'll send one of the servants up to sit with her," the doctor said, then closed the door.

Alone in the room now, Hugh Bordon was at a loss as he studied the poor girl. This youthful, willful, sometimes brash girl, seeming to always border on defiance with her redcoat captors now teetered on the brink of death. And the officer was powerless to help the young lady. The feeling of helplessness, the same emotion he'd felt when his wife and son were dying of cholera, made him sick to his stomach.

Hugh took her hand, holding it gently in his. The captain's heart overflowed with regret for her. She was so young, with a hope filled life ahead of her.

"Don't die, missy," he whispered. "You're too young. You have a whole lifetime yet to be lived."

/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/

**Author's notes: I kept General George Rogers Clark true to who he was in life with his decision in Betsy's situation. **

**When Clark and his men fought the battle of Vincennes on February 25, 1779, he had few men, the gunboat hadn't arrived yet to support them (it had gotten lost on the flooded river system), and no heavy artillery. So he used psychological warfare to win. When British Governor Hamilton was forced to surrender the fort, the redcoat officer tried to make deals with Colonel Clark. Clark refused all deals, demanding a total and unconditional surrender with no terms. Clark did, as usual, extend the courtesy (as was done in traditional warfare then as it was considered civilized) of letting Hamilton make a refusal, and then counter offers to the surrender, but Clark didn't accept them. He truly didn't like the British and Indians allied to them scaring and/killing the people in that area and swore early on that he would not make deals with Redcoats. He was as mentioned, always short of soldiers, supplies, weapons and support, so he became a master at using psychological warfare to help in situations. **


	22. Chapter 21: Ruse And Persuasion

**Hi readers! Thanks again for being patient. I want to be more timely with updating this story but family and job and other real life stuff keeps me from writing as often as I want. Again, please accept my apology on that. Take care and enjoy!**

Chapter 21: Ruse and Persuasion

Mrs. Leyanova stepped away from the well, carrying a pitcher of fresh water and clean basin for the formal dining room. The matronly Russian house servant was tired as were all the household staff. They had been nursing the ailing Miss Burwell, who was in bed severely ill with a recurrence of Malaria. The former resident of the land of the Czars who had served so many years as head housekeeper for the Burwells had assigned each of the housemaids different times to sit with the young mistress. That had left a hole in the staff whose duties had to be absorbed by the other workers.

As the weary woman shuffled slowly along the walkway, she lifted her head to look out across the green as she made mental notes in her mind of what chores remained to be done. A smile spread across her face when she saw the familiar sight of Atterson's Mercantile wagon coming up the driveway. The housekeeper couldn't remember what they had ordered, or even that a delivery had been scheduled. Nevertheless, Mrs. Leyanova was relieved to see it knowing that any delivery at this time of war, no matter what goods the vehicle bore, was a very good thing.

She quickened her step on the sidewalk between the outbuildings, hoping to complete the chore then run to meet the delivery. Leyanova slowed her pace a bit when she saw Mr. Waldron and Mr. Hantz racing up to greet the wagon as it rolled to a stop. She could depend on them to supervise while she finished this task.

As she continued on toward the dining hall, she looked at the teamsters oddly, as three of them dismounted the vehicle. The servant thought that strange, for usually only one driver came to make the delivery, occasionally two. The woman wondered what was so large that it took three men to help with unloading the goods.

Then one of the men turned to look at her. His sandy colored hair was down and long, under his hat which was pulled down low, but she recognized him right away. Mrs. Leyanova stopped dead in her tracks when that certain teamster winked at her. That deliveryman gave her a slight, gentle smile when he realized he'd been recognized. And she knew that face and warm grin, which was as familiar to her as the skin on the back of her own hand.

CRASH!

All eyes turned to the noise. Hantz and Waldron along with the deliverymen looked up from where they stood at the delivery wagon. The crash also got the attention of two dragoon privates who stood nearby in the shade of a tree.

Mrs. Leyanova, in shock, had dropped the water pitcher, which broke upon the sidewalk into large, thick pieces. The water spread onto the path and surrounding grass, but most of the cold liquid ended up on the housekeeper's skirt.

She stood, glued to her spot at the sight of the plantation master himself, Harry Burwell. The woman was stunned to see him there with and hardly recognized him in the dressed in the shabby clothes of a laborer.

Karl Hantz and Jake Waldron looked over to the side and noticed the two British privates watching Mrs. Leyanova curiously. Nervous now, they knew they had to keep control of the situation.

"I'll see to her," Mr. Hantz murmured, excusing himself. He trotted casually across the grass to where the housekeeper stood catatonically on the walkway.

Jake Waldron continued around to the back of the wagon where young Joe Thompson, deliveryman for the mercantile, was already putting the tailgate down. The farmhand looked nonchalantly to the side at the two British soldiers that had been under a nearby tree. The crash of the porcelain had only drawn their attention momentarily, and they had already resumed their conversation.

Waldron spoke in a hushed tone to his fellow rebels behind the wagon. "Any trouble?" he whispered to Colonel Burwell.

"No," answered Harry as he helped to unload a burlap sack. "Got right through."

Thompson kept unloading while the trio of men spoke. "How the Hell?" asked Jake.

"Thanks to this man," Burwell replied. "This is Colonel Ben Martin of the South Carolina Militia. Knows every road, path, plantation….and just about everyone."

Harry went on to explain the undercover trip home. He had left his regulars under his officers to make a quick journey with a militia detachment to the village. They purchased sundries themselves for the farm and had them delivered, giving them an excuse to sneak onto the plantation as teamsters with the wagon.

Burwell needed to assess the situation at home himself, no one knowing his land better than he. He could then see the best way to mount some kind of rescue of his daughter or possibly try to capture the farm back if he could get the manpower. Colonel Burwell hoped that out of uniform and hair down, that he could sneak past the large portrait of himself , in uniform, that hung in the parlor, without being recognized by the lobsters.

As the quartet of men spoke quietly and unloaded he delivery vehicle, Mr. Hantz comforted a confused Mrs. Leyanova.

"You must be more careful, woman," the farmhand scolded loudly as he squatted down near the woman to help her clean up. As he handed her the broken pieces which she collected into her apron, he whispered to her.

"Not a word to the others," he instructed, his eyes moving discreetly the direction of the wagon.

She looked nonchalantly up, then back down at the sidewalk. The woman, still in shock, nodded mutely. The housekeeper was happy to see her employer, but knew she would have to be wary and ready to move in case the colonel caused some action today.

As the two servants rose, he continued advising her in hushed tones. "You are to go about your chores as usual," he instructed. "If the master is caught, you know what the lobsters will do to him."

"Yes," she squeaked, barely able to get the word out.

"Tell no one that you've seen him."

She curtsied then dashed off toward the out kitchen. With that, Hantz strolled into the house, up the stairs and to Miss Burwell's room, where he found young Polly tending her. He shooed the girl out, telling her he would watch Betsy for a few minutes while he attended to a quick repair of the floor in her room—a lie which worked for him as the moment. The man then ran back downstairs and picked up a large crate, nodding for Harry to help him carry it into the house.

As they moved the box indoors, the men spoke quietly. "Most of the dragoons are gone temporarily. They left for a few days leaving just enough men behind to guard the place. We've got the house to ourselves at least for a few moments."

"Good," Harry said. "Ben is going to walk around outside a bit with Jake, and try to come up with some kind of plan."

They soon found themselves outside of his daughter's room. Harry had been informed that she was in the throes of a malarial fever. The man was anxious to see her.

Once in the room, he approached her bed quietly and leaned down, kissing her cheek. He could feel that she was burning up with fever. Then he knelt down next to the bed and took Betsy's hand.

"Missy," he whispered. "It's papa."

The girl rolled her head back and forth on the pillow and began to moan. "She's been in and out of her delirium," Karl advised.

"Betsy, my dear," murmured Harry, "You must be strong. Hold tight and fight to stay alive."

"Papa. Papa," she mumbled her voice barely audible.

"Yes, I'm here, sweetheart," Colonel Burwell answered. "I am trying to find a way to get you away from the British."

"Papa, please," she breathed weakly, barely opening her eyes to look at him.

His other hand reached to stroke her damp hair, hoping to soothe the girl. "I think of you and worry about you in this situation every day," Harry spoke, not sure if any of his words were getting through to the girl in her haze of fever. A twinge of pain gripped his heart as he wished he could spirit her away with them now. He could see that his daughter was too sick to be moved.

Just then, Mr. Hantz, who had been at the window, came away from it. He'd been watching for a sign from Waldron. He received it as Jake and Ben Martin approached the delivery vehicle. The militia colonel and farmhand hadn't wasted any time getting quickly around the outbuildings and back lawn.

"You have to go now, Colonel," Mr. Hantz declared.

Harry Burwell nodded as he rose. He leaned over again, and spoke as he put his lips to her forehead. "I have to leave now. Take care, Betsy. I love you." He kissed her hot skin then the top of her head.

"Father, Father," the girl whimpered weakly as the men left her room.

After the door shut, she sniffled a bit as a tear ran down her face. "Please take me with you," she beseeched in a tearful whisper. And then she fainted.

/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/

Benjamin Martin and Harry Burwell had managed to slip onto and out of the farm without even the lift of a dragoon eyebrow. The visit remained a secret; so discreet that none of the redcoat sentries left behind at the plantation detected anything. The legion officers, out on a mission through the Carolina countryside, remained none the wiser of the brief, covert visit by colonial traitors. It would remain a secret thanks to the camaraderie of the tight lipped rebel intelligence network.

Tavington and the green dragoons remained away from their billet at the Burwell residence for a few more days after the nearly invisible visit from two certain rebel officers. The legion continued to storm through the Carolina countryside, striking terror into hearts the locals. The dragoons paid visits to villages and farms, scaring the residents and warning them about taking up arms against their king.

Tonight their trek brought them to a plantation they had visited not so long ago. They thundered up the tree lined lane toward the large house, torches lighting their way, determined to obtain intelligence and root out rebels.

The house was that of Mrs. Charlotte Putnam Selton. The widow had missed the dragoons weeks ago during their first visit, having been away at the time. However she was in residence this evening.

Mrs. Selton and her servants had been readying to retire to bed for the night when the sound of dozens of hooves on the driveway roused them. They gathered at the large door that led out to the second floor balcony, remaining inside the house lest they be seen. The small group peered through the glass, staring apprehensively at the sight before them.

"Those are the same men that were here last time," informed Matthew the butler.

"Dragoons?" asked Charlotte, holding back the curtain as she gazed out into the darkness, a frown on her pretty face.

"Yes, M'am," he confirmed.

"They do like their night raids, don't they," she commented sarcastically to herself under her breath. Matthew turned quickly and headed down the stairs, knowing the men would demand to come into the house.

Charlotte remained behind upstairs, watching as the torch lights drew nearer the house. The noise of the cavalry brought Mrs. Selton's maid, Martha Durant, to the window. The blonde plantation mistress looked over at the servant and observed the girl staring transfixed out the window, a look of disbelief on her face. The maid was visibly trembling.

"Martha, have you had your menses since their last visit?"

"Yes," she squeaked, now wringing the material of her robe nervously in her fingers.

"Thank God," Charlotte murmured.

Both ladies watched pensively as the men reined their horses to a stop in front of the house. They were close enough now that their figures and faces were now softly illuminated by the torches they carried.

"The officer that assaulted you," Charlotte inquired in a hushed voice, "do you see him with them tonight?"

"Yes," Martha gulped, tearing up. She would never forget that man. The shaken servant pointed to Captain Bordon, no mistaking his stocky, foreboding figure even in the low light.

"Hide yourself up here," Mrs. Selton advised. "Keep quiet." The maid nodded, and padded quietly out of the room to find a hiding place. Mrs. Selton swallowed hard and headed downstairs as she heard Matthew opening the door.

The cavalry officers entered, removing their helmets and gloves as they did. "I'm Colonel Tavington, His Majesty's Green Dragoons," he introduced himself, the sheer tone of his voice making the servants in the parlor painfully aware of his supreme authority. "Is Mrs. Selton at home?"

"I'm Charlotte Selton," a voice called from the stairwell. William looked up to see a slender, stunning, blonde beauty of a woman ascending the stairs, in a fancy, frilly housecoat. He was surprised to see such a young widow, even though the colonies were full of them. But she was striking.

Both sets of blue eyes locked on one another for a moment. Charlotte's breath caught in her throat. She had not been able to see the men's faces clearly in the torchlight of the yard. The lady had prepared herself to see some scar faced wretch; a grizzled hulk of a monster. Instead her eyes beheld an officer in the prime of life; tall, regal, and uncannily handsome. The woman felt a twitch of heat between her legs and a knot in her stomach.

Her late husband, John Selton, had died 4 years ago. She had her mind and heart set on her brother-in-law, Benjamin Martin, husband of her late sister. That man, though he had declared his feelings for her, insisted that they remain chaste. And at present, he seemed to have no mind for her at all, being absolutely absorbed with war. Charlotte hadn't had a man in her bed in so many months, and she found herself lost in lewd thoughts about this enemy officer that stood before her now.

The widow's eyes moved to Captain Bordon. She was able to see him clearly now, and could see that the ginger haired officer was as dashing as his commander. Then she remembered that the captain had raped her maid. That thought snapped her back to reality for all these redcoat soldiers now in her house, reminding her that they were indeed enemies with a reputation for terror.

Charlotte and her staff watched the men cautiously, saying nothing. They kept a stealthy eye on the Colonel as he stepped backwards and leaned his slim figure out the door. "Search the outbuildings and fields quickly!" he yelled to the men outside.

The widow Selton shivered slightly when she heard this. She also found herself chafing under the hard, accusing stare of second in command Bordon.

When Tavington stepped back in, he spoke to two dragoon privates that were standing in the room keeping watch over the servants gathered there. "Search the house." The two burly dragoons moved out of the room quickly, one heading up the stairs, the other disappearing down the hall.

Charlotte, already nervous, didn't want her home invaded and searched, but knew there was nothing she could do about it.

"I've nothing to hide," she protested feebly. "I have only enough supplies and foodstuffs to run this farm and feed the few here."

"We'll see," the colonel answered, clipped and stern.

"It is well known that you have entertained rebels here," Bordon spoke up, not letting the woman escape short.

"And just as many loyalists," she countered.

"So you have," the captain replied, a suspicious lift of his eyebrows. The look made Charlotte want to squirm.

"I don't have gatherings here anymore with the war on," she said, her left hand moving nervously up her right forearm as she looked away.

"What do you know of Benjamin Martin," Tavington asked suspiciously.

"Nothing," she replied nonchalantly.

Tavington exchanged a tired look with Captain Bordon. The two officers heard lies and denials from everyone they interrogated, and though they were used to it, they could never seem to combat the frustration they felt from it.

"He is your late sister's husband," Hugh said directly in a tone that implied that it would be to her benefit not to enter into this game with them.

"True," answered the widow.

"He has stayed here, has he not?" asked William.

"Yes. He's family." She nervously shifted her weight from one leg to the other.

"He is also the leader of the militia," the cavalry commander asserted.

"I know nothing of that," she countered.

"You don't, hmmm?" Tavington continued to interrogate.

"No. I haven't seen or heard from him in months," the pretty widow shot back.

The colonel took a threatening step toward the woman. "You're lying," he accused.

Charlotte looked up at the cavalryman, who towered over her. She took a breath and summoned some courage. "I'm not, sir," Mrs. Selton bravely defended. "You don't frighten me like you did my maid."

"Ah, yes," Tavington said, with a sinister smiling curling across his lips, "You reported my adjutant's actions to the generals."

"He forced himself on her!" she asserted, her voice cresting in anger.

"The captain was merely containing an uncooperative person," the colonel corrected, whitewashing the severity of his aide-de-camp's actions. "The men have orders to impose sanctions on rebellious colonists as they see fit."

"She was innocent!"

"Not so much as you think," he shot back. "Perhaps she will learn to cooperate in the future."

Just then, the group assembled in the parlor heard the heavy booted steps of a dragoon coming down the stairs. "Sir," the private's voice called from the stairwell, "I found this one hiding upstairs."

The man had the maid, Martha Durant, firmly in his grasp. The girl looked up and immediately locked eyes with Captain Bordon.

Fearing not only another attack, but the man himself, she began to struggle. "No! Oh No!" she cried, trying to pull away from the soldier holding her.

Bordon kept a poker face as he stared at the girl. Tavington immediately knew something had scared the girl and voiced aloud his guess.

"Is that her, captain?"

"Yes," confirmed Bordon.

A sly, faked look of surprise moved over Tavington's face. "It doesn't seem to me that she learned any lessons from your last visit, Bordon. Perhaps you should deal with her again."

The second in command took the cue, knowing exactly what his superior wanted. With that, he stepped forward, reached out and took Miss Durant's arm in a hard hold. He jerked her roughly as he herded the girl toward the dining room, where the assault had happened. That was no accident on Hugh's part. Leading the servant back to where the painful event had occurred would serve to heighten the fear and intimidation factors.

"Oh, God, no! Please! No!" Martha screamed, struggling to get away from him.

Tavington followed behind the couple, with Mrs. Selton hard on his heels, protesting in a panic at the treatment of her maid.

"No! You can't!"

The colonel then drew the pocket doors closed, isolating Bordon and his captive. He turned quickly to find the blonde widow right behind him.

"Please don't hurt her again," she begged, taking a step back away from the dragoon leader.

He looked down at her and spoke. "Well, if she cooperates, then she won't be harmed."

Inside the dining room, Bordon released the Durant girl and cast a hard look at her. She backed away from the man, cowering against the wall, just as she had before. The two could hear the muffled voices of the officer and the matron as they continued their verbal sparring.

The captain arched an eyebrow as he gazed at the frightened maid. "So, must I persuade you again to help?"

She nodded. "Good girl," Hugh answered, obviously pleased.

"What do you want?" Miss Durant asked fearfully.

"More information," the officer replied. "The names of the rebels who frequented this farm."

Scared still, and without hesitation, she answered, careful to keep her voice low enough so as not to be heard through the door. "Gabriel Martin," she uttered. "He is Benjamin Martin's son, and the mistress' nephew."

"Go on," Captain Bordon urged. "What do you know of him?"

"He is a corporal in the army," she began, cringing as she spoke. "I think he serves with his father."

"Do you recognize the name of 'Colonel Burwell' ?" He needed to lead the girl a bit to pull some more information out of her.

"Yes. I think that is Corporal Martin's superior."

"Good. You're doing well," he commended, hoping to keep answers flowing from her with a little bit of positive affirmation. "Anything else you may remember about him?"

"He courts a girl that lives in Pembroke," she replied. "I don't know her name, but I think her father may be a shopkeeper there."

Hugh Bordon was quiet for a moment, ruminating over the information the girl had spilled. He committed her words to memory to put it in a report later when he could look at a map and get his bearings as to where Pembroke was located.

Martha remained quiet and afraid, watching the officer cautiously. The maid felt badly exposing the family of her employer to the enemy, but she made the decision quickly when she saw Bordon's face again that she was not going to be raped by him a second time.

"My thanks, Miss Durant," Bordon said in a gentlemanly voice. Then he led her to the door.

"You may join the others," he permitted as he opened the doors. The girl slipped past him and went to take a seat on the divan.

Charlotte had heard no struggle and no cries from the room. Whatever happened must have been to the dragoon's liking, she thought. Mrs. Selton was relieved and happy that her maid hadn't been harmed.

William Tavington continued his questioning of the plantation's mistress and her staff. "Where would I find Colonel Martin's children?"

"I don't know where they are staying," Charlotte lied convincingly. "There are other family members besides myself."

The colonel frowned in displeasure. He moved to a table in the foyer and ran his fingertips over an expensive porcelain vase, then he turned back to face the group in the parlor.

"You've been aiding the rebels with the resources of your plantation," he accused, shooting a cold, hard stare at Mrs. Selton.

"That is rumor and conjecture," she defended.

"Be that as it may," the cavalry leader admonished, "I don't like what I hear about your farm and your activities here."

"It's lies!" Mrs. Selton shouted, her body rigid stiff, her hands clenched into defensive fists at her sides.

"Nevertheless, I intend to put a stop to your treasonous functions," he proclaimed. The colonel then turned and walked toward the door.

"Seize any useable supplies," he ordered, "Commandeer the horses and any livestock easily conveyed."

"Aye sir," the private said as he rushed out the door.

William gave a nod to his aide-de-camp. Bordon, knowing so well what his commander wanted, spun on his heel and opened the door.

"Put the house to torch," yelled the captain at the soldiers assembled out in front on the green. "Burn the barns and outbuildings."

A collective gasp came from the small group of the Selton's servants in the parlor, the men rising defensively to their feet. Charlotte rushed forward in a panic. "No! Please don't!"

Colonel Tavington ignored her and issued a warning. "Let it be known that if you aid the rebels, you will lose your homestead!"

Charlotte's mind whirled in fright. She had to do something fast. Feeling her heart beating in her throat, she swallowed back and spoke.

"Colonel, stop!" she yelled.

He gave her an irritated look, as if he had been disturbed while reading his favorite book. Then he narrowed his ice blue eyes at her.

"I haven't been honest," she confessed in a slow, measured voice. "I _do_ know something. There are some documents hidden in my room."

Tavington stood quietly for an instant, eyeing the woman cautiously. He was pleased inwardly, not showing it. Again, threatening destruction of personal property had worked, coaxing cooperation.

"Bordon," he said over his shoulder while still keeping the woman in a suspicious gaze, "have the men hold their positions at ease until I command. Keep these people under guard."

"Mrs. Selton," he said with a sly smile, extending his arm in front of him motioning to her to lead the way.

She bowed her head slightly, then led the cavalryman toward the stairway. She started up the steps with Tavington behind her. He hesitated on the first step and turned back to his adjutant, who had his pistol trained on the trembling group of servants seated in the room.

"If I don't return or if they make a move, you are to kill them," Tavington advised ominously.

After a moment, the pair found themselves on the second floor of the white, columned mansion. The pretty young widow closed the door behind them once they entered her bedchamber.

"Well?!" the tall dragoon exclaimed in an impatient voice.

She took a deep breath to steady herself, hoping not to lose her nerve. She swallowed and spoke. "I lied," she began. "I do not have any documents for you. I just wanted to converse with you in private."

"Woman, you are wasting my time!" he swore irately as he pulled his sword and pointed it at the widow.

"I was wondering if we could come to some kind of agreement," she blurted, "in order for you to leave my farm be."

"What did you have in mind," William asked, trying to contain his frustration with the widow.

"Perhaps my solemn pledge that I will be loyal to the King," she offered.

"Pledges are broken every day," he sneered.

"Then perhaps I could entice you some other way," she said, slinking toward the dragoon, a smoky look of seduction on her countenance. The woman stopped a few feet from him, and took her robe off slowly, extending her right arm to let it fall onto the floor. Then with both hands she untied the drawstring at the top of her night gown and pushed it down her body to where it fell to the floor in a wisp.

William liked what she was offering as he admired her body. He cocked his head to the side, drawing his lips into a tight line. "That may suffice," he answered lasciviously.

Charlotte was elated inside for her own success of killing two birds with one stone. Bedding this officer—this handsome officer—she thought, could save her homestead from fire and slake the flame of womanly need burning within her _own_ body.

The widow silently closed the distance between her and the dragoon commander, standing now bold and naked next to him though mindful of the sabre he still held. She reached forward and slid the flat of her right hand up the front of his left thigh, the leather of his breeches warmed from the skin it covered. Her hand then moved to his groin, where she massaged his manhood, which hardened quickly with her touch.

Tavington took her chin in his free hand and tilted her head up to look at him. "You're quite beautiful, Mrs. Selton. I wonder if you can do anything else with that mouth of yours other than challenge authority, hmm?"

The woman blinked her eyes slowly and demurely, saying nothing, then sank down to her knees. Charlotte would let her actions answer the officer's question. The lady undid the placket of his pants and pulled his erection free of the garment with nimble fingers.

Before she could seduce him further, he raised his sword to his side in a defensive stance. She saw the action from the corner of her eye, making her shiver and shrink protectively lower. The colonel brought the blade of it down next to Mrs. Selton's neck, resting it there.

"If you try anything other than seducing me," he warned, "then I will take your head off with this sword."

Charlotte nodded then began gliding her fingers over his hardness. When she heard a low gasp escape the colonel's lips, she closed her palm around his shaft and began to fist the length of it.

The colonel kept his tight hold of his sword, keeping it near the woman's head even though her teasing hand was making his own head swim.

Pleased that the dragoon leader was enjoying her actions, she then took his cock into her mouth. The woman swirled her tongue over the head, teasing around it, then down the length of ridge on the underside. William groaned again as he watched the woman. She felt him throb and twitch as her mouth moved on him.

Tavington closed his eyes, lavishing in the woman's wet and teasing mouth on his stiffness. Her lips and tongue seemed to slide easily over the sensitive organ, slipping in and out, up and down from root to tip. His breath became ragged and his right arm, the one holding the sword, relaxed and eased as his side. After another moment of her mouth softly sucking him, he pulled himself out before he got too close.

"My, you rebel women are hungry, aren't you," he asked in a teasing voice, looking down at the woman. Charlotte, still on her knees in front of him, said nothing, simply licking her lips.

"And just how badly do you want to keep your house?" his brow furrowed, wondering just how far the widow might go.

Mrs. Selton rose gracefully from the floor, turned, and glided across the room. She bent herself forward over a small table, giving the officer a delightful view of her bare ass and more than ready quim.

"I'm all yours, colonel," she purred. "Put your cock inside me."

"Patience, woman," he growled as he strode across the floor toward her. "You shall have it."

Once behind her, he pushed his breeches down a little further. He hesitated a moment, letting his hand caress the curves of her soft bottom. William smiled when he heard her sigh.

The officer positioned his erection behind her at her entrance, pushing himself in only an inch or so, enough to tease the lady. She reacted, shifting her hips a bit, moving back against him, wanting to bring his stiffness into her aching moistness.

"Anxious are you?" asked the colonel as he gazed at her naked body. With that, he shoved his hardened manhood unceremoniously into her.

"Oomph," she gasped at the sudden invasion. Charlotte hadn't had a man for so long, and his girth stretched her a bit, causing an instant of discomfort. But a look of ecstasy soon crossed her face at once again feeling the fullness of having a man between her legs again; inside her again.

"You should hold on," he whispered as he grasped her hips tightly. "I intend to fuck you quite hard."

With that, she reached her arms across the little table, grabbing the other side of it. He made good on his promise, thrusting so hard into her that the small table rocked forward on its legs, tipping a bit.

"Yes! OH YES!" she cried out in pleasure at feeling him rock into her.

William closed his eyes for a moment as he drilled himself into her. For a young widow of some experience, he was pleased with how firm and moist she was. The wet, sticky sounds of their actions brought them both closer to the edge.

"You…have….been….missing…a…man, haven't you,?" the colonel asked, his hammering into her and his panting punctuating his words.

"God, yes!" she whimpered. "It has been so long. Oh please, don't stop!"

When he could feel his cock starting to twitch within her, and her wetness squeezing him back, he stopped, pulling himself out of her sweetness. Mrs. Selton spun about, leaning back on the table, giving him a disappointed and deprived look.

She watched him as he stepped over to the richly decorated chaise lounge of red and gold. He urged his trousers down farther on his thighs, totally freeing his hardened cock. The colonel seated himself near the end of the lounger, looking lasciviously at the beautiful widow.

"Come here," he commanded.

Charlotte Selton pushed herself up from the table and padded softly over to the chaise. She stood between the officer's spread legs and cooed when his hands began to knead her supple breasts.

"Ride me," said Tavington.

The young woman put her knees on the chaise on the outside of both of his legs. She positioned herself over his prick, then sank down slowly on it, emitting a satisfied groan as she did.

"Oh, mmmm", she moaned as she closed her eyes, loving the feeling of being astride a virile man again.

Her mouth found the officer's, finally receiving a slow, deep kiss from him. She had wanted to feel his lips on hers, and she languished in that kiss, moving her tongue with his in a slow dance.

When they parted, she massaged her breasts, rolling her nipples between her fingers, teasing them into hard little buds. The woman then took her breasts, aching and heavy, in her hands, offering them to the officer.

Colonel Tavington dipped his head and caught one of the hardened, pink tips in his mouth. As he rolled it with his tongue and sucked it hard, Charlotte began to propel herself up and down on him.

"Oh, yes," she cried out again in wanton lust.

William's hands caressed her thighs, then settled on her hips, holding her securely on his lap. He closed his eyes as she pushed and swayed on his lap, up and down on his firm erection, feeling that familiar warmth building in his loins.

"Oh, you're good at this, my dear," he murmured.

The woman continued, moving herself on his stiffened cock, urging them both on to orgasms. They soon came together, grunting and sighing in satisfaction.

Mrs. Selton left his lap while still panting in exhaustion. The widow felt dizzy and was barely able to walk, and ached between her legs and hips. She was happy and satisfied, her womanly desires calmed, and hoping her actions might save her plantation.

She reached for her robe and pulled it around her modestly, only now hiding her body. The colonel pulled his breeches up, straightening his rumpled uniform.

Tavington reached for his sword and scabbard which had been discarded to the floor. He spoke as he secured them back onto his body.

"Well, you've earned a reprieve for your farm," he announced. "I shall let it remain intact, for now. But if I hear of your involvement in anything suspicious, then I will have my men burn it to the ground."

"Thank you," she said, her eyes glassy with the drugged after effects of sexual satisfaction. "You have my word that I will be good." She smiled lewdly with her pledge.

"I _will_ be back, Charlotte," he said, his eyes locked in a lustful stare with hers.

"I look forward to it, William," she said with lusty smile.

/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/

The green dragoons returned two days later, galloping triumphantly back onto the Burwell plantation. The colonel and the captain had found it a very fruitful trip, having gained a myriad of information and oaths of loyalty from scared colonists.

This afternoon, Captain Bordon sat with the ailing Miss Burwell, who was still recovering from her malarial relapse. Upon his return he was greeted with good news: that the girl's fever had just broken and that she would survive this bout. He had offered to Mrs. Leyanova to sit with the girl, allowing the freeing up of one of her servants for other chores. It was no trouble to him: he was making notes in his field and personal diaries as he sat at the young lady's bedside.

"Papa! No! Don't go," the Burwell girl whimpered suddenly. "Take me with you."

Hugh Bordon looked up from his note making, gazing at the young lady. Her eyes were closed, her head rolling from side to side on her pillow.

The captain was confused momentarily. Her fever had broken, so he knew that she couldn't be delirious.

"Miss Burwell," he whispered as he studied her.

"Father, the redcoats!" she cried, her voice breaking as she did. "Don't leave me! I'm afraid!" Her eyes still closed, she lifted her arm limply, as if reaching for her father.

Captain Bordon caught her small hand up in his, tucking it securely into his fingers. He stretched his own arm out to touch her forehead with his fingertips. Her fever had not returned.

Hugh noticed tears trailing from her eyes at the side of her head, moving down into her mussed up hair. He realized that she was having a nightmare. The officer gently took hold of both her shoulders and shook her lightly.

"Papa! Father! Please!" she continued to cry and thrash.

"Wake up, missy," the cavalry adjutant urged quietly.

Her body jerked hard, then she sat up suddenly. The girl looked about, her eyes glazed over with the disorientation of just waking.

"Easy….easy," Bordon said. "You were dreaming."

As the fog of illness and nightmares departed the ailing girl's head, she looked about her room in confusion. Betsy couldn't understand why the officer was at her bedside.

"Begging your pardon, sir," she began in a timid voice as she sank back into her pillows, "why are you in my room?"

"Do you recall nothing of the last few days?" asked the officer, his face and eyes drawn up in concern.

"No."

"You took ill with fever," answered Bordon, "Nearly a fortnight. Your servants said that this was the worst spell you have ever had. You were near death."

Miss Burwell's eyes widened in amazement. Feeling a bit cold, she pulled the covers up to her chin.

"My father," she began in a lost voice, "I remember. He was here."

"No. That was your dream."

"I_ know_ he was here," she wailed, becoming agitated and trying to sit up again. "I saw him."

The captain urged her back down, knowing it best that she recline. "Easy, missy. Rest back."

"I'm sure that you didn't see him," the captain asserted. "Your fever was so high. You were delirious for days."

Relaxing again onto her pillow, she tried to wade her way through the mental confusion. Betsy had been sure that her father was there, so close she could touch him. Now, she wasn't so certain anymore. Her heart sank, thinking that she had dreamed his visit.

After a moment of quiet, the captain sat back in his chair. He addressed the recovering girl again. "Why didn't you tell me that you carried Malaria?"

"Why would that be of interest to His Majesty?" Betsy simply asked.

"It's not," replied Bordon. "But I was alarmed to see you in the possession of an ague that nearly killed you. I've told you that I have a care for my captives."

With that, the dragoon second in command gathered his diary and pencil. "Rest now," he said as he got up from the chair. "I'll tell Mrs. Leyanova that you're awake."

Betsy nodded as she settled beneath the coverlet. She watched the officer as he walked to the door.

"Captain," she called weakly.

"Yes?" Hugh Bordon stopped at the door, turning back to look at the girl.

"I know that you think I have been lying all the while about my betrothal to Major Clark," she said. "But I haven't been. I truly knew nothing of it until I was made to read father's letter aloud the night you captured me. Father never told me."

Captain Bordon closed the door and moved to the foot of her bed. "I know that now," he admitted. "I thought you lied initially, but I've realized in the last few weeks that you didn't know of it."

"How?" she asked.

"Intelligence is only one of my duties," he answered with a smile. "It's part of my job to ascertain truth from falsehood."

The officer turned to walk to the door, then stopped. He looked back at the girl. "Why did you want me to know that?"

"I want you to trust me," she said shyly.

"_Should_ I trust you?"

"Yes," answered Miss Burwell.

"Why?" the captain pressed her.

"Because I've earned it," she replied, with a hopeful smile.

The officer frowned at her, making it understood that his trust wasn't instilled so easily.

The girl amended her answer, speaking timidly, unsure of herself now. "Because I don't want the colonel to hurt me again."

She paused, then added, "Or _any_ redcoat."

"Keep out of trouble and you won't be hurt," he advised in a brotherly sounding voice. Bordon then strode to the door. As he opened it, he turned back once again to speak to Miss Burwell.

"Do _you_ trust me?" he inquired as an afterthought.

"Yes," she replied.

"Good. I must have earned it," he quipped. Captain Bordon whirled fast on his heel and disappeared into the hallway just as quickly.


	23. Chapter 22: The Effects Of Words

**Hi all. As usual, my apologies for not updating sooner and thanks for your patience. Thanks to all who are reading the story. This was a long chapter, so I divided it. This is the first part, and the second part will actually be the next chapter. It is already written so hopefully I will have it up soon. Thanks. **

Chapter 22 The Effects of Words

_Autumn 1777…._

Betsy shuffled out of the mercantile, a cloth sack filled with the sundries that she'd purchased tucked under her arm. Private Gwynne, one of the younger dragoons, saw her exit and met her at the steps, taking the bundle from her. She thanked him and only watched for a moment as he shoved the pack into one of the saddlebags on his horse. The girl walked to the edge of the covered porch that ran the length of the front of the mercantile. She leaned on the rail as she squinted in the sunlight.

Aside from Gwynne, who was posted near the Legion's horses, she looked about for the rest of her guard detail. Since she had been captive, the few times that she was allowed to venture off her property, she was always escorted by a small group of dragoons, politely called a "detachment" by Captain Bordon, for her "protection". But she referred to it as her jailers assuring that she didn't escape.

She spotted Ensign Kidwell, who was across the street talking to the apothecary. Then she saw Privates Rainey and Wells, two recent recruits from the area's loyalist population, talking and flirting with two young women they seemed to know, obviously showing off their new uniforms. Sergeant Jennings was atop his horse, walking down the street, looking official patrolling the town, and Captain Bordon was nowhere to be seen. They weren't assembled and ready to go, so she had time to kill.

Betsy sauntered to the edge of the porch at the side where there was no railing. She sat down on the edge there, away from the store's main door, in a little corner all to herself to wait for the men to assemble again. And although she was under guard there, she could breathe easier, for at home she felt them breathing down her neck, under close scrutiny with the walls of her own abode closing in on her. At least she was out and about now, and had a little space. The veranda was so high that her feet dangled a couple of inches from the ground. She sighed as she swung her legs, the same way a small, fidgety child would.

As usual, when out like this and not having a member of her guard nearly on top of her, her mind would start spinning, as she thought of a possible way to escape. These days though the wheels of thinking still spun, they chugged sluggishly, as the plan for escape wasn't as ambitious as before, knowing that she, whether on foot or on her horse, could not outrun or outride the expert horsemen of the cavalry.

After a moment of basking in the sunshine, a woman's voice pierced her personal solace. "I heard that Colonel Burwell promised her to an officer up in Virginia. He's fighting out in the Northwest territory now."

Betsy perked up a bit. She turned her head slightly to look at the side of the building. The words fit her situation, so she assumed the talk was of her.

Another strange voice joined in now, muffled, coming from inside the store, the words floating on the air out onto the porch and right into Miss Burwell's ear.

"Jeremiah told me that Colonel Burwell sent word to the man," the other feminine voice informed, "A Major Clark, I think is his name, begging him to come home and marry the girl and take her to safety."

Sighing in frustration, Betsy rolled her eyes. A look of disgust crossed her face. _Must everyone around here know my business, she asked herself. It's hard enough that the British knew of my betrothal before I did. And the servants know. Good Lord, now the townspeople are gossiping about it! _

"Too late now," the first woman exclaimed.

"Yes. The lobsters have her and her homestead, poor girl."

Betsy Burwell shook her head, silently agreeing with the woman. She was glad to at least have their pity. The girl closed her eyes when she heard no more voices and only shuffling from inside the mercantile, the warmth of the sun falling on her cheeks.

After another quiet moment of being wrapped in the sun's warmth, she heard the women's hushed voices once again coming from inside the store.

"Do you think she has turned?"

"I would think so," the other lady opined. "I heard that her farm is supplying the British now, and that she signs the invoices for their payment."

Miss Burwell felt distraught, now, as these two cackling hens discussed her loyalty. She hesitated, caught between wanting to confront the women, yet wanting to move away from the store, out of earshot so as not to be subjected to the talk.

"And those redcoats staying on her farm," the second lady lamented, "in her house, making her a prisoner there."

"Well, she can't be too much of a captive if she is allowed to come to town," the first woman declared.

Reaching up for the railing, Betsy pulled her body up off the porch. She stood and brushed the dust from her skirt, having made up her mind to walk away from the store, no desire to listen to the gossiping women any longer.

"She must like their company, for she seems to make no attempt to escape."

This was too much for the girl, who huffed in a breath at the words. She clenched her hands into fists at her sides as her lips drew tightly into a scowl. _If they only knew, she thought, how close they watch me; how I can only leave the farm escorted—guarded—rather. And how, if I tried to escape, the dragoons would probably ride me down!_

"Do you suppose she is made to share a room with any of them?"

"I wouldn't be surprised to learn that she is a mistress to one of them!"

The girl sucked in another breath at the harsh words. She changed her mind now, deciding to confront the gossipers and set them straight.

The two women continued on mindlessly, unaware of Miss Burwell, hearing all they said and stewing over it on the porch.

"Why hasn't her father rescued her," one of the women queried.

"Probably thinks it's a lost cause to expend good men to save his turncoat daughter," the other lady answered squarely.

Betsy burned and began to stomp across the porch, determined to enter the store and read the riot act to the old hens. Just as she reached the door, the deep voice of Captain Bordon caught her attention.

"Miss Burwell. We're leaving."

"Yes sir," Betsy replied as she let go of the door handle, feeling conflicted, part of her happy to be leaving, the other half disappointed that she didn't get to face down the two old biddies.

Moments later, the small detachment of the Green Horse was on the road making the short journey back to the Burwell farm. Betsy, the brim of her simple hat pulled down low over her eyes, let the horse walk along, guided by the other steeds of the group, as her mind boiled and rolled. The reins lay loose across her hand as she stared blindly out to the side. She kept hearing the two ladies gossiping freely of her and her supposed involvement with the redcoats, echoing through her head.

Captain Hugh Bordon rode beside her, noticing how quiet she seemed. The girl could be shy and retiring from time to time, so this small bout wasn't unusual.

"Did you enjoy the jaunt into the village," he asked cordially, making small talk.

The young colonial didn't answer. She hadn't even heard the man over the voices of those cackling old hens still gossiping in her memory.

The redcoat officer cocked his head, knowing the girl hadn't heard him. He knew she must have been distracted by a sight or a thought, nothing for him to dwell on.

"Did you find everything you needed at the mercantile, Miss Burwell?"

A scowl crossed his face. He knew that the chit wasn't being rude, but could see that she was rather preoccupied. Watching her a moment, he could sense something off kilter about her since leaving Cascadia. Ever chasing intelligence and not one to brush off any source, he spoke, determined to get her attention and find out what, if anything, had happened.

He cleared his throat and spoke a little louder this time. "Miss Burwell, your captivity has been ended," he declared. "You're free! You may go now."

When this elicited no response from the young woman, the captain looked curiously at the girl. She seemed a million miles away and he wondered what so thoroughly possessed her thoughts.

After another moment, the horse Betsy rode bobbed his head hard, pulling the reins right out of her palms where they lay. The sudden motion jerked her from the turmoil in her mind, making her reach forward suddenly to catch the reins. After she regrasped the leather, she looked to her side only to see the dragoon leader looking oddly at her.

"I'm sorry," she began in a confused tone, "did you say something?"

The captain laughed heartily in a deep tone. "Yes. I just gave you your freedom," Bordon answered dryly. "However, I'm revoking it now that I have your attention."

Betsy frowned sourly at the man for obviously poking a joke at her expense. Her look of disdain told him that she didn't appreciate being teased.

Before she could resume her reverie of dismay, the officer spoke again. "You don't seem to be yourself today, Miss Burwell. Is something the matter?"

"No….um….," her voice trailed off.

"Did something happen in town," he asked, genuinely concerned yet covertly gleaning for possible intelligence. "You know that you can speak to me of anything."

"Uh..no…everything is fine," answered Betsy shakily.

"Oh. Very well, then," Bordon replied. Another exercise in patience for him. He knew that if the matter was pressing, it would eventually eat away at the Burwell girl and she would end up spitting it out in conversation later. As usual, he marked it in his memory then looked forward to a quiet ride home with the detachment.

/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/

"Will you be needing anything else, miss?"

Myriam hovered a moment in the gazebo, looking at Miss Burwell and Miss Lansing. She stood in anticipation of pouring the first cups of tea, ready to serve the ladies.

"No, thank you," Betsy replied. "You can go back up to the house."

Betsy's friend, the soon to be married Hannah Lansing, had come to call on her this afternoon. And after hearing the disturbing gossip, which Miss Burwell was the subject of, she was glad and relieved to have a close friend to visit with and confide her woes of the world to.

"Very good, miss," the servant answered. And though the maid was used to serving tea in the house and staying nearby to attend, she wasn't surprised that Miss Burwell wanted to do it herself. Still, Myriam hesitated a moment at the step of the gazebo out of habit, in case the mistress might change her mind.

Betsy looked over at her and smiled reassuringly. The maid curtsied quickly, then turned and left with a swish of her skirts.

Harry Burwell's daughter and her friend, Hannah, exchanged conspiratorial looks with one another. Then they turned toward Myriam, watching her with eagle eyes as she trotted back to the house.

When Betsy deemed her servant to be out of earshot of the gazebo, she spoke. "I hope you don't mind having our tea out here," she said in a low voice, "It's the only place where we could have some privacy. The walls of my house have redcoat ears."

"No, it's a nice day," Hannah assured. The two looked over the small, sweet scones arrayed on the table before them, each choosing one and putting the cakes on their plates. Then each girl took a sip of tea.

"How are they treating you?" Miss Lansing began with the mandatory, introductory cordialities of a visit over tea.

Betsy looked around, gazing outside the gazebo to the yard beyond as she took a long sip of her beverage. Dragoons milled about engaged in conversation, some lounged in the shade while others ducked in and out of the tents in the canvas village that was situated on the back lawn. All of it was a constant reminder of her captivity. "As well as can be expected for being prisoner in my own home."

She set her cup down on the saucer and leaned forward, looking in earnest across the small table at her friend. "They watch every move I make," she began, as if it was something she wasn't supposed to tell anyone, "they listen to every conversation I have with my servants."

Heaving a sigh, she continued her lament. "I cannot leave the farm without an escort—they call it—which means 'under guard'. Good Lord, I can't even ride or walk to the edge of the property without asking first. They read all my correspondence and insist on seeing anything I send out."

"How are the officers?" asked Miss Lansing. Her head tilted to the side, a disconcerted look for her friend's situation clouding her features.

"They order me and the servants about," Betsy answered. "Captain Bordon is nice to me. He protects me, saying that though we are enemies that he does care about the welfare of their captives."

Hannah put her cup down on the table, then picked up her spoon and shoveled a bit of sugar from the bowl. "He probably feels a bit responsible and maybe thinks that someone ought to take care of you since your father is away," she pointed out as she stirred more of the sweet substance into her drink. "You're young and alone."

Both young women paused a moment to chew on their cake and sip their drinks. As they did, Miss Lansing looked about at activity on the estate. Her eyes traveled over the top of her cup, inspecting the young cavalrymen around the farm.

"There certainly are a lot of handsome soldiers about," Hannah observed aloud, trying to suppress an appreciative smile.

"Hannah, I'm shocked at you!" scolded Betsy in astonishment. "You're getting married in just days and your eyes are roving!"

"I can look all I want," defended Miss Lansing. "Does not one go to the gallery to admire a work of art?"

Both young ladies chuckled then took bites of their cake. After washing hers down with some tea, Hannah continued the conversation. "Have any of the young men here made advances toward you?"

At those startling words, Betsy choked on her tea. She put her cup down and patted her neck with her hand as she coughed. "Good Lord, you're scandalous, today," Miss Burwell exclaimed.

With that, she took a sip of her tea, swallowing it slowly to ease the irritation in her throat. A quick memory of when Captain Bordon had tried to steal a kiss from her flashed across her mind. The girl recalled how it had left her confused, wondering and in turmoil. And now, she bristled, uncomfortable at how that episode still evoked emotion in her. His advance made to her in the parlor was still her secret. She knew she should probably confess it to Hannah, but decided to keep it to herself.

"No, they haven't," lied Betsy in answer to her friend's query. "The whole countryside as well as the redcoats know that I'm betrothed."

"As if that has ever stopped a man—even a gentleman," Miss Lansing commented snidely as she took a drink. "Do you like any of them?"

"Hannah!" Miss Burwell was flummoxed at how bold her friend—nearly a married woman—was talking today.

"Oh, tell tale!," the engaged girl coaxed. "Major Clark won't hear of it from me!"

Miss Burwell sighed and rolled her eyes. "Yes, I agree," she admitted, "There are many nice looking soldiers here. And if I were to like any of them here, it would be Captain Bordon."

"He does seem the most gentlemanly of the bunch," Hannah concurred.

"Yes, he is," Betsy assured. "He is very fair towards us and treats us better than most of the men here. He's well educated and speaks a few languages. Mr. Hantz curses in German and we have to remind him that the captain understands what he is saying." Both young ladies laughed at the thought of Bavarian farm hand Hantz getting caught spewing a string of profanity in German.

Pouring some cream into her drink, she went on about the dragoon second in command. "He converses with the local Indians when they come through," she informed as she stirred her tea. "He is from a wealthy family, I hear. Poor man. He seems to spend most of his time calming Colonel Tavington down, and smoothing mishaps over. He is a true diplomat."

Miss Lansing nodded her head. "So, have you heard any good gossip you can share," she asked of her friend as she poured some more tea into her cup.

Becoming quiet, Miss Burwell frowned, looking down at her lap. A look of worry crossed Miss Lansing's face, moved by her friend's distress.

"Betsy?"

"Aye. I heard some vicious gossip this morning which _I_ was the subject of," the girl answered. Betsy proceeded to tell her friend what she heard in town earlier in the day. The sting of those old biddies' words obvious to Hannah as Miss Burwell recollected aloud the incident.

Appalled and disgusted, Miss Lansing spoke up, supporting and defending her friend. "Betsy, you know that _I and my family_ know the truth! Let them talk! They will surely see where your allegiance lies when this war ends!"

Betsy smiled at her friend, nodding her head in silent agreement. Both young women reached for another of the petite cakes from the tray.

Hannah took a small nibble of the tart and swallowed. After a sip of tea, she spoke. "I _did_ hear some gossip that will make you giggle."

Betsy rolled her eyes and grinned at her friend. Despite what had happened earlier in the morning, Miss Burwell was thoroughly enjoying her visit with Miss Lansing.

"It involves Colonel Tavington," informed Hannah as she wiped the corners of her mouth with her napkin.

Betsy perked up and smirked impishly. "Tell tale," she said in a curious, yet cautious tone.

Looking about carefully, just to make sure no dragoons were near the gazebo, Hannah began. "Our cook, Mrs. Stennis, ran into Mrs. Kennert at market. She is the cook for Drakespar Plantation."

"Is that the Selton widow's farm?"

"Yes," Hannah confirmed. "Mrs. Selton's cook says that their farm was raided by the Green Horse weeks back when the widow was away, and that one of the maids was assaulted. They raided it a second time a couple of weeks ago and threatened to burn the place."

Miss Lansing paused to stir her tea. Tinkling her spoon on the edge of her cup, she went on with the story. "Apparently, the widow Selton and Commander Tavington came to some kind of agreement, for he called off the destruction. But, the colonel has since been to visit Mrs. Selton a few times with only a small guard."

The girl stopped suddenly, leaning in toward her friend. She reached across the table and touched Betsy's wrist. Miss Burwell leaned in, wondering keenly what her friend was about to say.

"He interrogates her, always meeting with her in her bedroom," Hannah revealed. "Mrs. Selton told some members of her staff that the colonel has employed extortion against her, and… has his way with her. Supposedly, she only allows it to save her farm and says that she abhors him and being forced to do it."

Anxious to get to the next part of the story, Miss Lansing could hardly keep herself from laughing as she told it. "However, the cook said that the widow acts giddy as a school girl and is all smiles when she receives news that he is coming to visit, and that there are screams of pleasure coming from her boudoir."

The girls giggled, then broke into full blown laughter.

"She's become his mistress at the price of saving her plantation," Betsy sneered.

"And apparently she's enjoying it all the while," Hannah guffawed. "No coercion there!"

As the laughter died down, an odd thought crossed Betsy's mind. She posed her question to her visitor. "I didn't see the blacksmith's daughter today. She's usually always helping her parents."

Miss Lansing's countenance turned serious. She hated to be the purveyor of negative gossip, especially when its subject was that of a friendly, innocent village girl that was well liked and never hurt anyone. Hannah, though, wanted to answer her friend's query and knew that she would want to know.

Sighing, Hannah answered sorrowfully. "You haven't heard. She was sent away, supposedly to help a relative. It was sudden….and secret."

Both girls were silent. Betsy ruminated on her friend's answer, knowing what it meant when a young girl was suddenly sent away from home.

Her face darkened. She closed her eyes and sighed. Shaking her head in disbelief, Betsy responded. "Oh no! That day that the dragoons kidnapped me from the village, I saw something horrible."

"What?" questioned Hannah.

Betsy couldn't help but feel sick as she recounted the incident to her friend. "Please keep this to yourself," the girl began. "As I ran to hide, I caught sight of one of the cavalry commanders straddled over the girl on the ground. He had her skirt pushed up." She stopped short there, knowing she didn't need to say another word.

"Who?" asked Hannah cautiously.

"It was Colonel Tarleton," answered Betsy, her voice lowered. "He was only with this group of dragoons for a few days. I heard the men talking about him, that he heads his own cavalry unit. He has since returned to them in New York."

Frowning, Miss Lansing felt as upset now as her companion. "Oh no! Father heard that the blacksmith had protested to the British generals about something bad that had happened to his family," added Hannah.

Both young women didn't have to guess what the worker of iron had complained about to the redcoat commanders.

"What did they say?" Betsy queried cautiously.

"The blacksmith told my father in confidence that they were sympathetic to him," explained Miss Lansing, "but that without proof, they could do nothing to the accused officer."

Betsy shook her head helplessly, knowing the frustration they felt. She herself knew that there was no dealing with the British.

"If you testified to what you saw, would it help his cause?"

"No." Miss Burwell replied. "I_ tried_ to tell Captain Bordon what I saw but he dismissed it, saying that I might have been in such a harried state that it must have affected my reasoning."

Betsy went on. "But I _know_ what I saw," she proclaimed. "And _even_ if I did testify to the generals, I'd be afraid of retribution from Colonel Tarleton or the same by proxy at the hands of Colonel Tavington or Captain Bordon."

Hannah watched Betsy quietly as the girl gingerly clasped her hands in her lap. She knew what the dragoon commander had done to her friend, having seen the lacerations on her palms.

The revelation, and subsequent guess that Colonel Tarleton had made the blacksmith's daughter pregnant, disturbed Betsy. She went on. "Captain Bordon insists that they are _all_ gentlemen and don't do that sort of thing, despite any rumors. From what I observe every day, they are a loyal brotherhood that closes ranks on outsiders. I wish I could help, but I know that nothing I say will make a difference and will probably be turned on me."

Hannah nodded quietly. She didn't want her friend to be hurt again by her captors.

Betsy sat her cup and saucer down then reached for the teapot. She poured hot tea into both their cups, refreshing their beverages. Miss Lansing spoke as her friend served.

"So, are the redcoats going to let you attend my wedding," she asked playfully, shifting the tone away from the dark dialog they'd just shared.

"The Captain told me I could…under guard, or course."

"Well, ask him to assign the most handsome and eligible young men to the detail….there will be young ladies there," Hannah commented.

"I am sure he will appreciate my suggesting that," Betsy answered sarcastically.

Both young ladies nibbled their cakes again, then sipped their tea.

"Now, tell me all about the wedding plans," urged Betsy with a smile.

/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/

Hannah Lansing left late in the afternoon, and Miss Burwell was sorry to see her friend go.

As the evening wore on, Betsy grew melancholy. She was upset over the plight of the blacksmith's daughter. Poor girl, she lamented, pregnant through no fault of her own, with a lobster officer's bastard.

And Miss Burwell couldn't help but wonder what else was being said about her and her own situation with her redcoat captors. She cringed when she wondered how much worse the gossip could get. The girl made herself nearly insane as her mind spun crazy scenarios of unfettered gossip about her running rampant in the countryside.

Then, there was her ongoing imprisonment and lack of freedom. British soldiers billeted in her home, a farm which her father and grandfather and mother had worked so hard to make successful, was disconcerting. Not knowing if the plantation would eventually revert back to her father, or would be confiscated altogether weighed heavily on her soul. Only the outcome of the war would determine it.

And the war. Would this damned war ever end?

All of these thoughts crashed about within Betsy's head, depressing the girl. All she wanted now was to get away from the thoughts; soothe the anguish of it all.

She knew that sometimes, people would drown their sorrows in drink. Miss Burwell had never been drunk before, but if it works for others then she surmised that it may work for her as well.

From her room, she could hear talking and laughter coming from the ballroom. The girl recalled hearing Mrs. Leyanova remark that the assembly hall was going to be used by a group of soldiers this evening for some sort of celebration. A smile crossed Betsy's face as her mind worked.

She soon left her room, anxiously descending the stairway, then moving out the back door of the house and across the breezeway. The girl found herself standing at the door of the detached formal dining room, looking over a group of young, happy and laughing dragoon privates.

Betsy stepped through the door, standing just inside the threshold. It only took an instant for the celebrating lads to become quiet, noticing an uninvited outsider in their midst ready to wreck their private party. And it was a woman, no less!

As they stared silently at her, she looked straight back at them defiantly. Then Betsy put her hands on her hips confidently and stoutly declared, "I can drink all of you under the table!"


	24. Chapter 23: Innocent And Intoxicated

Chapter 23: Innocent And Intoxicated

Hugh folded the last letter, ink now dry, and tucked it into an envelope. He had retired to his room after supper, spending the evening writing letters home to his family members. Bordon pushed the envelope into a packet containing all the other correspondence to England, readying the bunch to send out with the post in the morning.

The captain leaned back in his chair and stretched. He pushed himself away from the desk and stood up, stamping his legs which had stiffened with two hours of being seated. Reaching into his waistcoat, he checked his pocket watch to find that it was just after eleven. He knew he needed to get to bed and get some kind of decent sleep for tomorrow, which would be a day of interviewing possible candidates for the battalion.

The officer then walked to the window, closing it a bit further to inhibit some of the cool night air from entering. Bordon gazed outside, surveying the quiet bunch of tents and outbuildings on the back lawn. A faint round of laughter and then some shouting grabbed his attention. Hugh's eyebrows knit together in question, wondering where the noise was coming from. It is not coming from the camp for the tents are dark and there are no campfires, he thought.

His superior's instructions, uttered to him as they departed the dining table, echoed in his head. "_I'm spending the evening at Minnie's tent. You're in charge. Don't bother me unless it is dire!"_

Hugh knew there would be wrath if William Tavington was disturbed while in the arms of his favorite whore of the moment.

Captain Bordon heaved a sullen sigh, knowing he'd best check on what the source of the noise was lest it disturb the colonel. He checked himself quickly in the mirror. His cravat had been discarded hours ago and lay lifeless on the footstool, which left his collar open at the neck. His cinnamon colored hair was out of its cue, long and wavy on his shoulders. There he stood before the looking glass in black breeches, boots, shirt and green waistcoat only, no jacket and stock and technically out of uniform, but dressed enough to investigate a sound.

Once back on the first floor of the house, he could hear the ruckus clearly now and see the light and shadows coming into the house falling into the hallway where he walked. He knew there must be some activity going on in the assembly room.

As the dragoon adjutant crossed the breezeway, he saw a dozen, maybe a bit less he estimated, of the youngest members of the cavalry. The room was bright with light and the stench of alcohol was apparent. Captain Bordon stepped up slightly and entered the room.

Although the use of liquor was evident, the group of celebrants had immediately noticed their second in command standing in the doorway. There was the scraping and thumping of chairs on the wooden floor and the tinkling of bottles and glasses being returned to the table or knocked about as the men scrambled to their feet to properly salute their superior. They sloppily and drunkenly tried to snap to attention. Some of them muffled laughter as they assisted the others to stand. One young lad had fallen on the floor as he attempted to get to his feet and had to be helped up. Bordon saw that more than one of the youthful revelers were swaying as they stood at attention. He suppressed a snicker as he noticed one of the young men obviously passed out on a stool in the corner, leaning back against the wall, and another with his head down on the table.

"Captain," the soldiers mumbled in subdued voices as they nodded their heads in acknowledgment.

"Good evening, gentlemen," he replied warmly. "As you were."

There was a collective and audible sigh of relief as the men collapsed back into their chairs.

"Good Lord, lads, have you turned the Burwell assembly hall into a tavern?" the captain asked as he looked about at all the bottles and glasses laying about in crazy array on the table, and spilling over onto the floor.

"No," one of them replied. "We're celebrating."

"Aye! It's Wellsie's birthday!"

"Happy birthday, Private Wells," Bordon said with a smile, amused at how soused they all were.

"We're also having a drinking contest," Private Rainey slurred.

Hugh nodded his head, amusement on his face. "Yes, I can tell by the smell. I'll wager that you bloody well cleaned out the wine cellar."

"Oh, no sir. We left_ one_ bottle," another one stammered.

"It is all her fault," another soldier shouted drunkenly, pointing to the end of the table nearest the fireplace.

And there sat Betsy Burwell, her head down on the table, arm resting just above. The girl lifted her head and looked at Captain Bordon, raising her hand in acknowledgement of being accused.

Hugh's eyes widened in alarm. The officer was upset that the young lady was inebriated within a group of equally as drunken soldiers, which wasn't a good combination and highly improper. He was glad that he had stumbled into the gathering when he had and thankful that, so far, nothing untoward had happened to the girl.

"She told us that she could drink us all under the table," the private accused, "and we couldn't let that challenge go unanswered."

The officer took a breath and calmed himself down. "Apparently. So who is winning?"

"Not Higgy," one answered, pointing to the corner where Private Higgins was slumped and out cold on the stool.

"I can see that," Bordon chuckled. "Who lost?"

"Miss Burwell. She was first out! Lasses don't tolerate spirits well!" The soldiers all laughed.

"Gwynnie is winning!"

With that, Private Gwynne stood up and took a bow, all his friends at the table raising a glass or bottle to him. As he went to sit, swaying as he did, the soldier missed his chair and fell to the floor, and the room erupted into fits of drunken laughter.

Captain Bordon chuckled at the spectacle, then assumed the role of leader again. "If you keep on with this ruckus, you'll wake the house and bring the colonel as well," the dragoon commander advised as he strolled around the table.

"Nah!He's too busy strumming down at the follower's tent," one of the privates interjected.

"Yes. I'm sure he's in the arms of his favorite trollop about now," Bordon agreed.

"Aye. He gives her his sugar stick and she takes his money!"

Everyone laughed at the lewd remark. "Minnie! Minnie! " they sang, her reputation preceding her.

"If you disrupt his activity with her, he will surely be upset," Bordon warned, good naturedly. "And we all know how short his temper runs these days."

The second in command looked about at the bottles, the drunken privates, and Miss Burwell in the midst of all this and sighed heavily.

"And how many of you lads are on duty in the morning?," asked the officer. A half dozen of the soldiers raised their hands.

"Well, men, you've not got many hours to sleep and sober up, so I suggest you declare a winner now and get to bed," Bordon instructed.

"Yes sir," the group slurred. Again was the sound of chairs scraping and thumping on the wooden floor as the men got up.

"Can someone make sure that Higgins gets to his tent," the captain asked as he slowly made his way to where Miss Burwell sat. "That is, if any of you can walk."

He smiled in approval as Privates Blankenship and Rainey picked Higgins up and carried him from the room.

As the last of the dragoon privates dispersed, Bordon sighed and shook his head in disbelief as he stared at the prisoner. "Good God," he murmured to himself, "what drove you to do this?"

Drawing near to Betsy, he put his hands on Miss Burwell's shoulders and leaned down to her ear. "I'm going to help you into the house, missy."

"Thank you," she slurred, raising her head from the table. Looking around, her vision blurred, she didn't see the men, not knowing they'd left the hall. "I told them I could drink them under the table," she slurred drunkenly. "I showed them, didn't I?" A cockeyed smile crossed her face, thinking she had accomplished some great feat.

"You certainly did," Bordon agreed in jest, rolling his eyes. He went along with her silliness; no use reasoning with someone so thoroughly pickled.

The officer gently grasped her arms and helped her out of the chair. "Can you walk," he asked as he helped steady her on her feet.

"Yes! I learned to a long time ago," she snickered. The girl took two steps then promptly stumbled. Hugh was close enough still to catch her by the arm and prevent her crashing onto the wooden floor.

"Yes, yes," he answered with a roll of his eyes as he helped up back up to stand. "Put your arm around my shoulders." Betsy complied, a silly grin on her face as she did. The officer put his other arm around her waist to support her as he eased her gingerly from the room.

After stepping onto the breezeway, a sudden cold wind blew through, catching Betsy straight in the face. And though it was cool, Miss Burwell felt a rush of heat upon her, beads of sweat quickly breaking out on her face. Then her stomach roiled.

"Captain?"

"Yes?"

"I am going to puke," she said in a shaky voice.

"Miss Burwell," he said, tightening his hold on her and quickening his pace. "Ladies vomit. Lads puke."

"Whatever the proper term," she choked, "it is coming up now!"

Hugh rushed her down the breezeway steps and dropped her softly into the grass a few feet from the stairs. Betsy gagged and threw up for what seemed like minutes, then dissipated into dry heaves. Afterward, the young lady sat back and wiped her mouth with her hand, surprised that she still felt the euphoria of drunkenness.

"Do you feel better, lass?" the dragoon second in command asked.

"No," answered the girl, trembling now with a sudden chill.

Bordon snickered quietly. "I didn't think you would." Again he helped the girl up and walked her to the well nearby. He eased her down to the ground, sitting her back against it.

"Don't go anywhere," advised the captain.

"Yes, sir," she giggled.

Dropping the bucket into the water with a splash, the captain drew it back up full a moment later. He filled the ladle with the cold liquid and handed it down to the girl. Her hand shook a bit as she took a gulp into her mouth. She swished it about in her mouth then spit it out, trying to rid the taste of vomit. After that, she took a couple of sips, the water cooling her inside as she swallowed.

Handing the ladle back to the officer, she then gripped the edge of the well and pulled herself up to stand. "I have to go back to the game and make good on my threat to drink them under the table," she slurred, making no sense.

"That opportunity has passed. The party broke up," Bordon informed.

"Shame. I was winning," Betsy said.

"No. You lost."

"That's only because it was my first time," Miss Burwell defended. "I will surely win next time."

"No, I don't think you are ever going to drink again," Hugh predicted. "I will ask you tomorrow in the midst of your alcohol induced headache, and surely you will tell me that you are tea total."

As the dragoon commander helped the Burwell girl toward the house, she pulled a flask from her pocket and took a quick drink of it. Bordon, surprised to see it, grabbed it out of the youth's hand. He immediately pulled it out of her reach, holding it out away from his body at his own arm's length. Betsy reached for it, squirming to get it back.

"Give that back! Its mine!," she pleaded. "I won it fair and square!"

Still holding the container from her reach, the officer proclaimed, " I do not think that you need _any more_ to drink!"

The girl lurched, determined to get the flask back. With her body stretched as far as it would go reaching for the container, she immediately lost her balance and fell forward into the grass. All Hugh could do was shake his head and sigh.

Betsy Burwell pushed herself over from her stomach onto her back. Panting from the drunken effort, she threw her right arm up over her face, shielding her eyes, and spoke. "The lads gave it to me. It's my consolation prize."

Again another time, the captain helped the girl to her feet. He held onto her elbow, seeing her reeling and bobbing, unable to stand straight.

Indeed Miss Burwell had a sudden feeling of something rushing to her head. And then she felt dizzy and sick again. "My head is spinning," she commented. "Being drunk isn't as fun as you men make it out to be."

"That is often true," agreed the captain. "Can you walk, lassie?"

"Sure," she answered. Betsy took a step away from the officer. As soon as she did, she tripped yet again.

"Here," Hugh said as he bent downward. He secured his arm around her back and hooked his other under her legs. "Let's make this easier on both of us." The cavalryman picked the juiced youth up and carried her into the house.

A couple of moments later, Captain Bordon had made it upstairs with the girl. He entered her bedroom, where he put her on her bed. He had no intention of undressing the girl down to her shift for sleep nor calling for one of the female servants to do it. Rather, he thought it fine to leave her on top of the covers in her clothes.

The officer retrieved the quilt from the footboard and shook it out. As he spread it over Miss Burwell, she spoke. "You shouldn't be in my room," she admonished, a crooked smile on her face.

"I agree," he cajoled, spreading the coverlet over the soused girl. "But if I would not have carried you in here, you would not make it on your own."

Betsy giggled at his comment. Reclining back on the pillows, she took a deep breath, trying to collect herself as if making a speech in which she wanted no mistakes. "Captain," she began, willing herself to have a serious tone, "the day that you made an advance on me—"

"It was improper and I did apologize," he interrupted. He saw no need for there to be any more discussion on the subject, especially with a novice drinker who was making no sense in most of her speech so far.

"Yes, but, afterwards I couldn't stop thinking about it," the girl declared carefully. He could not either, but that was his secret never to reveal to anyone.

Hugh decided to let her go on. From his years of experience with drunken men, he knew that many of them needed to have their say, sloshed as they were, and would not shut up until they said whatever they had to, no matter how little sense it may make.

"I then decided that I _wanted_ you to kiss me," the girl slurred dreamily. "I stayed awake longer that evening hoping that you would steal into my room."

"Miss Burwell, that is not you talking," he informed, "that is the alcohol speaking for you."

"You could do it now," Betsy teased.

"Do what?"

"Kiss me," she replied. "Kiss me goodnight."

"No," answered the officer squarely. Captain Bordon stood up, ready to leave for the solace of his own bed.

"Why not?"

"Because you're drunk," he stated, "You're betrothed to another man, and because kissing can lead to other things."

"Yes. I know. I _did_ read Fanny Hill." The youth then laughed. She quickly stopped herself, and looked about the room as if someone might be listening. Then Betsy acted secretively, as if it was something she needed to keep to herself.

"I warned you not to read that rubbish," he scolded. "That filth has corrupted your innocent mind—"

"And educated me!" the girl giggled and hissed. Miss Burwell then sat up, pouting. "I have never even kissed my own fiancé."

Bordon thought it odd, but not too much so. Many couples were made to wait for any physical contact until their wedding night.

"I've never had a kiss from _any_ man," she lamented.

The officer could tell that she would not drop her request, and knew that she would need her sleep tonight. He relented.

The man bent his thick frame downwards, and placed a light kiss on her forehead. "Get some rest," he murmured.

As he stood to leave, Miss Burwell grabbed his forearm. She gave him a worried, drunken look of panic.

Alarmed, Hugh sat back down on the side of her bed. "What is it?"

"I want more of a kiss than that," she entreated, her voice low, her eyes beseeching. She put her hand on his cheek, her thumb caressing across his lips.

The captain was taken aback at her actions, so bold for a young girl, even one so absolutely looped, at that. He gulped, not knowing for an instant what to do.

The officer soon gathered his wits, remembering that she was plowed and that she didn't know what she was doing or saying, and would never remember it in the morning. He grasped her hand gently in his and took it from his face, putting it on the bedspread. "You're a pretty little lass."

"Just one kiss good night," she whispered. The girl looked helpless to him, as if she needed the kiss badly.

Hugh leaned forward and kissed her lips softly; virtuously. Her eyes were closed, he observed.

The officer lingered there, his lips still close to hers. The man kissed her again gently, his lips coaxing hers apart slightly. With self discipline, he stopped himself, daring not to venture further, unwilling to break the chasteness of the moment. She was not his to kiss, he reminded himself.

As he pulled back from her, Bordon was reeling inside. It felt so good to kiss a girl—an innocent one—again. He didn't make a habit of kissing prostitutes nor letting them do so to him. Not since his wife, Sarah, had he kissed a lady or had even the most remote longing to do so.

"Another kiss would do," she murmured, giving permission in her drunkenness.

"No", he refused in a whisper.

Betsy Burwell said nothing as she laid down on her back, settling under the blanket. The two of them held each other's gaze, as if under some hypnotic spell. The young woman brought her hands up and threaded her fingers into his russet locks, framing his face between her small hands.

Captain Bordon felt his control crumbling away quickly. He was so close to something; too close. The officer was conflicted. Ten years older than her, the man had wanted only to protect her, yet now he wanted to violate her virginity. She was so young and enticing and he couldn't understand what had come over him and what he felt.

Unable to take it any longer, his resolve broke. The officer, half sitting still, lowered his trunk onto her, slipping his arms around her, gripping her shoulders. Betsy quickly slid her arms around his neck, holding him close.

They kissed again. She was brave, opening her mouth a bit to him, letting him taste her. His tongue explored within cautiously, not wanting to scare her. He tasted the whiskey that lingered on her tongue as he mapped the wetness with his own.

After a moment of this torture, he pushed himself up, still half sitting, his arms locked straight with her caged within them. The officer looked nearly helpless, a slave to the opportunity, as he stared down at her.

Looking into her eyes, he murmured in defeat. "Do you have any idea what I could do to you right now?"

"I would let you," she answered, innocent and intoxicated.

Bordon suddenly regained some of his strength of character back, but from where it came, he had no idea. He hung onto it, though, tightly while he still had his wits about him. "Nonsense. You need to sleep this off."

Feeling heavy eyelids which she did not fight, Betsy pulled the quilt up to her chin. The girl let sleep overtake her instantly, no more words or protestations to the captain of the Green Dragoons.

Hugh Bordon tramped lightly from her room. Back across the hall and feeling somewhat safe from temptation, he closed and locked the door behind him. He felt confident—and relieved—that Miss Burwell would remember none of this tomorrow.

However, he soon felt that familiar lover's ache nagging in his groin. Putting a hand to the front of his breeches, his manhood was semi rigid. He sighed in his own frustration that he was thinking of her again.

"Christ!" he swore as he doffed his shirt and vest. "She is just a little chit of a girl, no more. Not a woman. Inexperienced," he muttered to himself.

He took off his boots and stockings then shed his britches. Wearing nothing more than his thin, linen underdrawers, now with a slight bulge in the front of them, he laid down in his own bed, hoping sleep would come soon to him.

The shared kiss, and the knowledge that it was Miss Burwell's first, and his philandering, crazy thoughts had only served to stiffen his cock even more now. He sighed, knowing he couldn't sleep with an erection. The captain needed to relieve himself, soon, and badly.

Bordon closed his eyes and let loose a deep sigh as his head sank into the pillow. He pushed the sheet down to his thighs. Moving his hand up, he reached across the top of his chest, his fingers blindly surveying the slice wound received in the skirmish a few weeks back. Though it was still fresh and pink with new skin, it was no longer tender to the touch.

Then his fingers moved down his chest, gliding to his left breast, where they stopped at his nipple. They hesitated there, recalling Miss Burwell's hands and fingers on him, his injured chest, as her hand glanced over his nipple when she stitched his injury. A gasp escaped from his lips as he remembered her touch then, causing his nipple to stiffen as it was now just at the thought.

The officer's hand slid down over his belly and moved lazily under the drawstring waistband of his loose drawers. He lifted his head to see the outline of his semi rigid cock straining against the thin material. Hugh let his head rest again on the pillow and a quiet groan of relief passed his lips as he grasped his stiffness with his hand. Bordon made a tight fist around his prick, then stroked himself slowly from root to tip, sighing loudly again at the feeling.

Captain Bordon imagined his rock hard manhood fitting snugly inside Miss Burwell's youthfully tight membranes, slick and ready for him. After only a few seconds of languid, relaxed fisting of his hardness, he melted into an illicit fantasy.

_The captain's mind floated seamlessly, soon finding himself in Miss Burwell's bed. The girl was beneath him clad only in her shift. Hugh pushed the skirt of the garment up to her waist as he balanced himself on his knees on the outsides of her slender legs. Then he gently parted her legs with his knees, easing his body in between them. _

_She gazed up at him, worry in her soft, brown eyes. "Will it hurt?" she asked quietly._

"_But for a moment," he answered, then wisped his lips over the skin of her neck. _

_He shivered when he felt her breath on the shell of his ear as her lips teased tentatively at it. Hugh took her head gently in his hands and turned her face to look up at him. Then his lips claimed hers, slowly, coaxing her mouth open. Bordon cautiously slid his tongue into her warm mouth, gently tasting the sweet virtue of it, for no man had kissed her before. _

_The officer then eased his body down on hers, cradling snugly his pelvis within her narrow hips, taking a moment to center himself there. After aligning the tip of his erection near her opening, he whispered, "Lie still for a moment."_

_The girl complied as she looked up fearfully at him. The captain then slid himself into her tight, virgin moistness slowly, an inch at a time. He watched her reaction closely. _

_The girl closed her eyes, holding her breath in an instinctive reaction to his invasion. Her face contorted as he pushed in further. "Oh….Oh," she whimpered in obvious surprise and discomfort._

"_Shhhh," he soothed as he kissed her jaw. Hugh stilled himself now, resting inside her wet innocence, giving her a moment to adjust to his girth. God knew he wanted nothing more than to lose himself in the sensation of rutting hard in and out of her virgin depth._

"_You've stretched me so," she sobbed. "It hurts." As he looked down her, her brown eyes silently pleaded with him to remove himself, begging to try again some other day._

_A tear slid quietly down her cheek, which he wiped away with his thumb. "You will feel better in a moment," he calmed. She turned her head to the side and buried her tear laden eyes in his strong shoulder. _

_After a minute of patience that he'd fought hard to hold onto, he pulled his yard out slightly, then pushed back in, making Miss Burwell wince. Her fingertips whitened as they dug hard into his back._

"_I have to break your shield before we can go on," he murmured. She sniffled and nodded her head._

"_Hold still, love," he advised as he drew back and poked harder and more deeply within her. The second jab finally broke her hymen, the tearing of it making her yelp. The girl struggled below him, clearly showing that she'd had enough of the deflowering process. His muscular body held her down firmly, providing no escape. In futility, she sobbed again._

_The captain took her chin gently and moved her head up, her face to his. "You now cry the tears of a woman," he comforted, reminding her of the whole purpose of their coupling. She smiled weakly up at him through her tears and the burning sensation emanating in her core. _

_Then she kissed him gratefully as she pulled his body against hers again. Bordon began a rhythmic thrusting. Those moves, coupled with his own feelings of conquering her virtue had already brought him near to the edge. Though he wanted badly to come, he fought it as again he wanted to be the first again: the man to give her that first orgasm. _

_Hugh groaned as he felt the girl twist and shift her hips below him, trying to take him more deeply, his cock wrapped in the tight, wet satin of her. And then he felt her breathing become uneven, and she gasped. And then she began to moan as she rocked her hips in time with his. As he opened his eyes to gaze at her, he noticed that a look of desperation veiled her face, as if she was searching for something; longing for something. _

"_Don't stop," she whispered is abandon, coaxing him on. "This is Heaven." _

_And after a few more strokes, he saw her eyes widen and sparkle, her mouth rounding as she cried aloud. "Oh Hugh! Oh My God! The bliss!"_

_The captain closed his eyes, lost in his own lust as he felt her body tense and quake below him, her womanhood tightening about his prick. Her arms encircled and gripped his body, hanging on as if she might fall away. _

_She looked up at him, crying tears of joy and relief as she gasped and spasmed with her first orgasm. And then he came in an instant, the warm rush in his hips and loins as he pumped his seed into the virgin. _

Then Captain Bordon opened his eyes to his dark room, alone in his bed, looking up at his ceiling, having just had his superb and ideal fantasy encounter with Miss Burwell. Only then did his realize that his own hand was still moving on his firmness. And after his perfect imaginings of bedding the virgin girl in his charge, the need to come overtook and possessed him.

He tightened his fist and moved it frantically up and down the length of the shaft. His prick twitched in his palm as he came, groaning and grunting all the while through gritted teeth, hoping no one had heard his personal ecstasy.

After coming down from the high of pleasure, he caught his breath, and lumbered out of bed. His legs shook and twitched, still weak from impassioned spasms, as he made his way through the dark stillness of his room. At his shaving dresser, he washed the ejaculate off his belly and drawers, then from his hand.

He moved back through the dark to his bed where he reclined comfortably in the afterglow of bodily satiation. "God damned Clark," he thought to himself. "Lucky to spoil that prim little lass."

He then rolled onto his side, closed his eyes, and drifted off to sleep.


	25. Chapter 24: Setting Things Straight

**Hi readers. I apologize for taking so long to update. Wendy just finished school and is out for the summer and I've been busy with her. Also picked up some overtime at work, of which the extra money really helps! Thanks for your patience. Hope you enjoy this chapter.**

**JScorpio**

Chapter 24 Setting Things Straight

"If you would please, raise your glasses and join with me in saluting the newlyweds, Mr. and Mrs. John Day."

"Hear hear!" the crowd shouted after Richard Day, the groom's brother, made the hearty toast.

Betsy smiled as she lifted her glass, gazing at her friend Hannah, the bride. Miss Burwell felt a nearly uncontainable happiness as she saw the way that her friend beamed today as a joyous newlywed.

When the champagne in the coupe finally touched Miss Burwell's tongue, she grimaced noticeably. Vivid memories of a recent drunken hangover flooded Betsy's mind. It had been but a week since her introduction to hard spirits, imbibing overly with the youngest members of the Green Dragoons.

She remembered nearly nothing of the incident, but painfully recalled laying in bed for two days with a raging headache and vomiting to the point of dry heaves. The girl had refused all food, not wishing to throw it up again, until Captain Bordon convinced her of the worthiness of bread absorbing any of the alcohol lingering in her system.

The Burwell family servants had waited on the sick girl, having been informed of her drunkenness by the dragoon second in command. Indeed Bordon recounted the event to the ill young lady and was not harsh on her at all. Instead of scolding her, his only words were "I hope you have learned a lesson about alcohol."

And now, at the wedding reception of her friend, the wine flowed freely and all the guests about her drank deeply of it. And as they did, Miss Burwell discreetly lowered the saucer and placed it on the table nearest her, resolving not to have any more spirits—at least at today's gathering.

A string of guests had lined up to toast the newlyweds. As they did, Betsy took the opportunity to slip away to the privy outside. She left the house and crossed the green, noticing the long driveway lined with carriages and horses, some overflowing into parking upon the lawn. The girl scowled at her _own_ family's vehicle, which she easily picked out, for it was the only one surrounded by redcoats.

The gaggle of bright red uniforms hovering near the coach made her cringe. The same embarrassment she'd felt earlier having arrived in the company of these men still hung over her even though the guests were all inside. Betsy knew well that their presence seemed to put even the most innocent loyalist on edge. The silent, accusing stares had begun the moment she exited the carriage to enter the wedding.

The guard detail, commanded by Captain Bordon, sat on the ground on blankets spread out next to the coach where they played cards. Another private was on picket duty, vigilantly watching the immediate area of the house and celebration within. Betsy soon spied Cornett Galdun, on horseback, patrolling between the fresh cut lawn and the wooden fence of the pasture, in which the cows took no notice of him. The only dragoon not seen was Private Tanner, who was on vedette duty somewhere on the property, probably at the end of the lane, she assumed.

Betsy huffed in disgust and rolled her eyes at the men. _All this fuss to assure that I don't escape, she thought. Seven men to make sure any brash rescue attempts are foiled. All this for some little country girl at a wedding. All this for a prisoner who's own father won't surrender himself and leadership for her. _She entered the outhouse and let the door slam behind her.

After a moment, Miss Burwell reemerged from the privy having settled nature. Taking a few steps away to escape the smell, she hesitated a moment, taking in the view of the modest sized mansion before her. The old, white brick house was in need of some repair, but she had no doubt that the groom would soon take care of that.

Since his older brother was the benefactor of his father's fortune, John Day received this respectably sized farm from his aged grandfather: a gift to a beloved and much favored grandson. _Hannah will be the mistress of all this, thought Betsy. Her own household to run, by her choice, at the tender age of 15. And no doubt there will be a babe about the home months from now._ Miss Burwell couldn't help but grin at her ruminations.

Betsy's slender legs soon carried her back to the house. As she passed the out kitchen, the smell of baking made the girl stop in her tracks, then drew her back to it. She rounded the corner of the brick building, lingering for a moment, breathing in deeply the smell of fresh baked bread and cakes. The young lady closed her eyes, trying to guess what meat they were roasting, soon to be served. She opened them, but before she could crane her head to peak in and get her answer, the loud voices of the servants within startled her.

"The nerve of the Burwell girl bringing those lobsters with her today," one baker harshly criticized. "She's high and mighty going about with them."

"Aye," another woman chimed in. "Having those redcoats here frightens everyone."

"Really! Going about in public with them while she's betrothed to a proper Virginia gentleman," the other cook's voice derided. "One who's out fighting on the frontier now."

Betsy frowned. The residents in the local area had no idea what she was going through. All they heard were mostly rumors and only a handful of truth, which were then chopped up, rehashed, and jumbled over and over again. What they saw was a pretty young girl with no chaperone in the company of redcoat soldiers. And they were the WORST of the enemy; the Green Dragoons had the most lewd and vile of reputations.

The girl took a deep breath, summoning some courage and what bit of Burwell pride she had left inside her and strode to the house. Once there, she was met on the porch by two female party guests, who immediately hushed up their conversation the moment Betsy stepped up on the veranda. They regarded her with accusing stares, making no attempt to hide them.

Miss Burwell did not answer their stony silence, but instead walked slowly into the house. "Redcoat whore," one of the women murmured harshly, damning the poor captive . Betsy looked back, but decided not to approach the two society ladies on the veranda. The girl did not want to cause a ruckus on this most special day in her best friend's life.

Continuing on, Betsy Burwell strode nonchalantly in the ballroom amongst the wedding guests, doing her best not to draw any attention to herself. She couldn't avoid the suspicious looks from the people she passed. The muted conversations that suddenly stopped mid sentence when she walked by were the worst, making the girl blench and wish that she could somehow become invisible.

"Really! Must she flaunt her allegiance to the British?" a male voice whispered, on purpose, meant for Miss Burwell to hear. The young woman did her best to march on, suddenly making it her immediate mission to get away from her accusers and make it across the large room to the safety and protection of her friend, the bride.

Picking up the pace, she trotted along, making her way through the crowd, avoiding eye contact with anyone. "The shame her father must bear," still another voice impugned, "at having a turncoat daughter."

Betsy stopped suddenly, her legs paralyzed and frozen to her spot. She recoiled, in the midst of the many guests, in the grip of paranoia. Shame and fear washed over her, making her nearly gasp for breath. All she wanted to do now was run—escape—before the crowd, seemingly accusing her and ready to lynch the girl, could get her in its clutches.

Looking across the ballroom, she desperately wished to get Hannah's attention. She wanted to bid her farewell and feign some illness, but the new bride was busy accepting the congratulations of well wishers surrounding her.

Miss Burwell turned on her heel suddenly and slinked toward the nearest door, trying with all her might to control herself. She made a deal with her nervous legs, wanting nothing but to carry her away at the fastest gallop._ If you can just make it to the door in a calm manner, then you can run all the way to the carriage and never look back!_

But the actions of her body betrayed her, making her canter and twitch as she made quickly toward the exit like a scared doe galloping back to the woods for cover. She didn't look at the crowd of people as she passed them, sure they were smiling in approval at her hasty departure, glad to be rid of the turncoat girl and her redcoat escorts!

Just then from across the ballroom, the new Mrs. Day happened to look up as she was handed a glass of punch and noticed her dear friend dashing across the room in the direction of the door. Hannah, having known Betsy from childhood, could tell by the look on her friend's face that something was indeed out of sorts.

The bride, distressed and confused by the actions of her best friend, turned to her new husband.

"John," she said, laying her hand on his strong forearm as she spoke, "Betsy's leaving."

By the tight and frenzied grip her fingers made upon his arm, the groom could tell that his new young wife was greatly upset. "Not to worry, my love," he assuaged, "I'll go after her." He adored Hannah, and of this day of all days, he would do anything for her.

As he stepped away, his own father spoke up. "No! Let her leave," Mr. Day spat, "and take the lobsterbacks with her!"

"Yes," Mrs. Day, the groom's mother agreed. "Their presence has made the other guests uneasy."

"No," the young husband argued stoutly. "I'm going to do what I should have done in the first place!"

"That is?" asked the groom's father.

"Invite them in."

His parents were shocked. And as hosts of the wedding, would not allow it. "They're not welcome here," Mr. Day informed.

"With respect, Father, this is _my_ house." John Day stopped in his tracks, forcing himself to keep his voice down, not wanting to cause a scene.

"You will insult your guests," his father advised.

"No, Father. _I_ insult_ those_ _men_ by not asking them in!"

"You have surely heard of how they conduct their duty," John's mother reminded. "The way they treat people, especially the women around here. And they burn houses and destroy property."

"That's exactly the reason _why_ I should invite them in," the groom insisted. "My hope is that in the future, they will remember the hospitality we extended to them and spare us from destruction!"

With that, John Day tore away from his mother and father, marching purposely toward the door with his beautiful bride hard on his heels. His family followed after, as well, stopping just inside the doorway, looking on with worry as their son and new daughter-in-law approached the dragoon guard.

Betsy, who was near the coach readying to enter it, had not even noticed the people in her wake on the sidewalk. A voice stopped her as she took the hand of Wallace, one of the slaves who acted as coachman, to be helped into the vehicle. The girl turned to find the bride and groom standing before her.

"Miss Burwell, must you leave so soon?" asked John Day. "Hannah longs that you would stay with us awhile."

Surprised, Betsy was taken aback by the actions of her friends. She stammered, "Well….I..uh.."

Before she could finish, the groom chimed in, not giving her a chance at any excuse or refusal, as he turned to speak to Bordon.

"Major?" he queried in his best and most cordial tone.

"Uh…Captain," the dragoon commander politely corrected the host. "Captain Hugh Bordon at your service."

"Captain Bordon," the young groom began apologetically, "I hope you can forgive me. I am utterly embarrassed at my oversight. I've been terribly remiss not to greet you before now."

Though his face did not register the emotion, Hugh was surprised by the actions of this young colonial. The dragoons were used to facing frightened, suspicious, and often belligerent and combative locals. The youthful groom was absolutely charming and warm toward the redcoats.

"Well, you've been a bit busy today," Hugh laughed off the oversight, having not expected this much amity from any of the guests today.

"My bride and I would be honored if you and your men would join us in the celebration."

"It is a generous invitation, but we are on duty," Bordon politely declined. "Apologies."

"Perhaps you and your men could take turns between duty and pleasure," John offered as a solution, not wanting to take 'no' for an answer.

"We're not in dress uniform," the captain countered, trying his best to decline the invitation officially and politely.

"Nonsense! You all look quite appropriate, I assure you," the groom persuaded.

"Yes. Please don't refuse us," the bride pleaded demurely. "There are many young ladies in there that will have need of dance partners!"

Captain Bordon smiled handsomely and nodded his head. "Well in that case, we can't decline. We'd be delighted to join you. Many thanks!"

John took Betsy's arm, who was confused by and had remained mute during what had just transpired. Inside, she was still apprehensive, as well, to go back into the reception and dwell amongst the same crowd that regarded her with so much suspicion.

"Mrs. Day," Hugh Bordon said, looking down at the new bride with a warm smile, offering her his arm. She gladly took it, returning his look with a satisfied grin. She hooked her hand through his elbow, resting it softly in the crook.

"I'm so glad you could join us," Hannah said congenially, a happy and relieved look upon her pretty face.

Bordon bowed his head quickly in response then followed the groom and Miss Burwell into the reception.

/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/

An hour had passed since the Green Dragoons had been invited in to the reception. Miss Burwell had spent most of the time in stunned silence, still incredulous over the whole situation. She recalled the hushed gasp of the party guests as the feared enemy soldiers tramped in with the bride and groom. Then the cavalrymen moved amongst the crowd, displaying the utmost of genteel manners and politeness, easing and charming the other guests. The locals soon warmed to these redcoats, who seemed to be perfect gentlemen and nothing of the rogues they had heard so much talk of.

Betsy finished off a light meal, looking about at the couples as they twirled and whirled about the floor. The orchestra, hired in from Charlotte, had been adept in the current styles of music, moving from quadrilles, to jigs, to minuets, and to the latest reels of the day. The privates had already squired some of the women and girls about the dance floor, all the while their commander, Bordon, had spent most of his time engaged in conversation with the groom.

The girl thought it a clever ploy on the part of John Day to get her to stay longer for his bride by asking the British soldiers in. She had no choice but to stay with her guard so aptly employed in the joy of the moment. Miss Burwell had not a clue that the bridegroom's plan had been twofold. It had not crossed her mind that by inviting the redcoats in, that he was furthering future relations with His Majesty's forces should things turn ugly in the future. Betsy had been too rapt to think or even speak at the spectacle of the lobsters intermingling in pleasure with the locals, and the guests suddenly refraining, for the moment, from further accusations against her. For that, she breathed a great sigh of relief and the hint of a smile curled her lips a bit.

John Day ambled across the ballroom to the musicians, speaking in low tones to them, as the crowd milled about on a break during the dancing. Betsy watched him, assuming him to be requesting some special song.

The groom soon broke away from the orchestra, an impish grin on his face. The crowd quieted and turned to face where he stood.

"Captain Bordon," began Day, "I've been informed by your men that you are a dandy fiddle player." A violin was then passed into John's hands from one of the musicians. Offering the thing up, out in front of him, he asked, "Perhaps you would grace us with a tune?"

The commander was patted on the shoulders and back in enthusiastic encouragement by the youthful underlings. They cheered him on and pushed him forward from the crowd at the same time. He tried hard to hide his embarrassment.

"I haven't had the opportunity to play in months," Bordon apologized modestly. "I'm afraid I'm a bit out of practice."

"We'll bear that in mind," young John Day said as he pushed the fiddle into the officer's hands. It was obvious to everyone that the groom would not take 'no' for an answer, and Hugh Bordon was far too skilled in the manner of his social class, knowing better than to embarrass the host.

"How about something slow," the captain requested, still a bit embarrassed by the fuss made.

" 'The Ash Grove' " the officer announced. With that, he unexpectedly turned the instrument on its side in front of his body as one would hold a guitar, fret to the left and holding the bow in his right hand. He plucked through the first strains and chorus of the tune, always preferring to play the introduction in pizzicato.

At the end of the chorus he quickly and fluidly raised the instrument to the traditional position, on his left shoulder, tucked under his chin. For a musician out of practice, he pushed and pulled the bow expertly across the strings, making no squeaks or squawks, the officer proving his proficiency in the instrument. The violin in Bordon's hands sounded beautiful; a graceful, single instrumental voice. At the end of that second chorus, he nodded his head, never interrupting his playing, the sign for the orchestra to join with him.

As he continued to play as the featured soloist in this group, Miss Burwell looked at him, openly astonished, her breath taken away. She thought the playing to be as good as her mother's, who was considered in her time, to be one of the finest fiddlers of the area. Hannah, who was seated next to Betsy, took her hand, equally as surprised to hear the man's excellence on the stringed instrument.

"He's quite good," the bride gushed in a subdued voice. "You never mentioned that he could play."

Betsy, still incredulous, answered, "I didn't know he could."

"Didn't he ever play in camp there at your home?" asked Hannah.

"No," Betsy replied.

When the song was finished, the guests clapped wildly for the British officer, and shouted for another tune. He responded, showing off his prowess, playing a bit faster this time on the song 'A Soldier's Joy', with the orchestra joining him. This time the crowd not only listened, but danced as well. At its conclusion, they again wanted him to play, but he thanked them politely, saying instead that he wanted to dance a bit, handing the violin back to its rightful owner.

As the musicians moved into the opening strains of 'My Lodging is in the Cold, Cold Ground', Betsy left her friend's side and moved toward the punchbowl. On her way there, she was intercepted by Captain Bordon. The girl found herself tongue tied, usually able to converse easily with the trusted officer, still so surprised at his hidden talent of musicianship.

"This is one of the songs that I prefer to play," he remarked of the lilting waltz, "but I've taken enough attention away from the hired musicians."

He smiled warmly down at the young lady. She answered his look with silence, instead grinning nervously with a nod of her head. As the girl stepped around him, he caught her arm. Startled by his commanding touch, she stared at him in disbelief.

"And….I realized that we haven't danced together yet," he boldly commented. Bordon extended his hand to her and asked, "Might I have the pleasure?"

"Of course," Betsy squeaked. Without delay, she took his hand and let him lead her to the dance floor.

They moved lightly about the ballroom, blending with the other couples, not the focus of attention. The captain made customary small talk. "You look very pretty. More than one gent has stolen a glance your direction."

"You mistake that, sir," she corrected politely. "They only look at me because of the string of redcoats in tow."

Bordon smiled at her quip, knowing full well that the crowd did regard them with suspicion everywhere they went. He and Colonel Tavington, as well as their generals rather liked the fact that their mere presence commanded attention, and hopefully obedience and cooperation, everywhere they went.

The captain and Miss Burwell became quiet, listening to the beloved tune and submitting themselves to the dance. Hugh Bordon liked guiding the pretty young girl about the floor on his arm. He had danced with a few ladies this evening, including the bride. The officer felt a certain comfort moving with the mass of other dancers, as if the people might have forgotten for one moment that he was the enemy and might see him as just another wedding guest.

As they continued to dance, Betsy was awash in emotion, unable to comprehend why. She had last felt this way over a year ago, she remembered. It was in Charles Towne, in May of 1776 at a ball. The girl had danced then, as well, in the strong arms of Major George Rogers Clark, only having just met him. And now, she was feeling the same way while with Captain Bordon. The sensation of her hand being held firmly in a large, masculine one; the light touch of a man's arm occasionally wrapping about her shoulder or waist; the look in the eyes of her male partner; the commanding presence of being led about the floor.

And then there was the smell. The scent of a man and his uniform freshly washed with a soap cake for the occasion. And although the soldier and the clothes were washed spiffy clean, it couldn't completely erase the faint remnants of the equine odor of which the essence seemed to cling permanently to the cavalryman. Then there was the dominating aroma of the leather of his boots and breeches, tempered by the fresh sweet fragrance of apple pomade used to help gather and queue an officer's hair. The amalgam of it all gave the girl those same fluttery sensations in her stomach as if someone had unleashed a whirlwind of leaves in there.

Only this time, there was more. She found it hard to catch her breath, and her skin was hot, knowing she had to be blushing. But even worse, the young lady felt a strange sensation seeming to pool low, near her thighs, ending in a sort of unexplainable ache between her legs, in her innocent womanhood.

The couple had moved around the whole of the floor at least twice, Betsy not sure having how she'd done it with the emotions boiling in her head and stomach. But when she'd realized that the insanity of it threatened to reduce her to mush, she broke the silence, hoping to put the crazy sensations to rest.

"You play very well," commented Miss Burwell.

"Thank you," the captain acknowledged sincerely. "My Grandfather Hurley taught me when I was a wee lad. He was determined that one of his grandchildren would learn."

"I had no idea you could play," she admitted. "I've never heard you practicing at home."

"I've no fiddle," Hugh informed.

"You left it at home in England?" the girl asked incredulously.

"No. It was broken back in the Spring time," Bordon answered, "when rebels raided our camp. We drove them off, but my poor instrument was smashed beyond repair. It was sacrificed for firewood."

"I wrote to my parents and begged them to send me another one," continued the captain, "but alas, it has yet to arrive."

About that time, the song ended, and the officer and his captive bowed and curtsied as custom dictated to one another.

"Thank you, Miss Burwell, for the turn about the floor. You dance very well."

"As well, to you, Captain," she replied. "I enjoyed it."

/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/

The fading rays of the sunset streaked the skies as the Burwell carriage bounced along the road headed home. The reception had ended not long ago, the guests leaving the newlyweds to their home and first night alone as man and wife.

As the coach moved along, there was a stony silence between Betsy and Captain Bordon. They were seated opposite each other on the bench seats, the young lady having said nothing since bidding farewell to the Day's.

Again, ever the good intelligence officer, the dragoon adjutant wondered if the girl had learned of something while at the reception; perhaps over heard some information of use to the British. As usual, he decided to engage her in round about conversation to discern if she knew something.

"The men and I had a wonderful time," he remarked cordially. "Did you enjoy yourself?"

"A little," Betsy answered in a lackluster tone.

"Only a little?" Bordon queried, fishing for anything he could find.

"People stared," Miss Burwell replied in a clipped tone. "I was embarrassed."

"Why?" he coaxed. The officer always looked for information, which could be 'hidden' anywhere, such as in plain sight, conversation or the needle within the haystack. Hugh was always challenged to find it.

"Because I'm always accompanied by redcoats," she blurted sourly.

"We are at war," Bordon reminded. "And King George is still the sovereign of these colonies. You colonials should be used to seeing men in uniform."

"But there is still talk and stares," countered Betsy. "People either haven't heard that I am your captive, or they don't believe it. Some of the locals think that I just let you stay at my farm; that is isn't a forced billet. They say that Father is ashamed of me."

"Miss Burwell—" the officer tried to interrupt, but the distraught girl was reeling on a tangent.

She continued on excitedly, nearly in a wail. "They even say that I share beds with your men. But worst of all, there is talk that I've turned coat!"

"Where do you hear this?" asked Captain Bordon out of concern and curiosity. He moved to the edge of his seat, ready to comfort the girl, thinking she was near to bursting into tears.

"Back at the wedding," she cried.

"No wonder you were in such a hurry to leave," commented Hugh.

"There were whispers and stares," Betsy went on, "And I hear and see them in the village, as well."

"You can't stop gossip, Miss Burwell," he stated.

"I don't care to listen to it," she said, "And I hate being the subject of it!"

"You know the truth," the captain tried to calm her.

"I can't stand it anymore!" she exclaimed, nearly coming off the coach seat. "I wish now that you would just send me away to the fort or prison, then I wouldn't be subjected to gossip nor have to stomach it any longer!"

The officer closed his eyes and released a heavy sigh, not caring to hear anymore of her childish ranting about gossip. He knocked on the top of coach to get the driver's attention.

"Sir?" the driver called.

Bordon leaned his head out the window and spoke up to the man. "Stop the carriage, please."

"Yes sir!"

Betsy was glad inside. After the reception, she had been hoping to ride home alone, but Bordon had hitched his horse to the back of the vehicle and elected to travel within. She was happy that the officer was halting the coach to get back on his horse, so that she could be alone to wallow in her own self pity.

The ever vigilant dragoons on horse converged near the coach, leaving one out on the road to keep watch. They watched the door intently as their superior emerged.

"I'm sorry for the stop," he said turning back to the coach and extending his hand to the girl. "Miss Burwell needs to relieve herself. We won't be a moment."

The young lady hesitated inside the coach, not sure what was going on. "But, I don't have to—"

A strong hand grabbed the confused girl's wrist and yanked her out of the carriage. "What is the meaning of this?!" she protested.

Betsy had no idea what was going on; why the dragoon leader had become so angry in an instant and was treating the girl roughly.

"Stop!" the girl yelled as the redcoat hustled her along, nearly dragging her alongside him toward the woods. "Captain Bordon! Let me go!"

The redcoat officer, usually always diplomatic and understanding, had come to the end of his patience in only an instant. Miss Burwell's childish fussing, which was but only a girlish fit born of her own genuine frustration, drove Bordon over the edge quickly and he decided it was time to remind the youth just what was important at this time of war and want.

At the wood line, he threw the girl behind some bushes and smashed in behind her. "If you want to be sent to a prison," Bordon blew up, "THAT can be arranged!"

"At least I wouldn't be subject to humiliation!" she shot back.

The officer huffed out a breath of exasperation. Then he closed his eyes and shook his head, unable to believe this girl who had assumed the unwanted mantel of adult responsibility for her father's farm, as a youth, was now unable to realize the bigger picture.

Turning away from her, he paced a couple of steps, then spun back to face her. "You really are a sheltered, spoiled rotten little chit, aren't you?!"

The explosion took the girl by surprise, making her step back in fear. "What?! How dare you!"

"Miss Burwell, you seem to forget that this is a time of war," he admonished, "and though you are a captive, your situation is far better than that of other prisoners. Have you even stopped to think about that?"

"How so? I'm a prisoner. How is _that_ any better?!" she shot back.

"Listen to me, missy," he scolded. "You are lucky to be in familiar surroundings; in your home. You have your trusted servants about you. You get to sleep in your own bed in your own room in a warm house. You are entrusted a certain amount of freedom within the confines of your farm. You are even allowed out occasionally, accompanied. You have food. And, though you may not realize it, you are protected by His majesty's army, and have me to watch and guide you when needed."

He continued on. "Those in the fort wile away their time in the cells and are not allowed out. Those banished to the frontier stations may get traded to the Indians, who might absorb you into their tribe if they're in a generous mood; scalp you if they're not."

Betsy knew better than to show indignation while the dragoon commander lectured her lest she face another, more severe tongue lashing. However, she _was_ listening to him, his offer to send her away having grabbed her attention.

Captain Bordon went on with his discourse on imprisonment. "And then there is the Provost Dungeon in Charles Towne. Quite honestly, it is deplorable. It is dank, dark, and cold. Rife with vermin. No bed: sleep on the stone cold floor. No blanket. No food. Illness runs rampant. If you don't die from disease or starvation, you may be hanged. If the dungeon is full, then you will be sent to the prison ships anchored in the harbor."

The girl's eyes widened, knowing full well what happened to the men sentenced to time on those boats. It was unbelievably worse than the Provost dungeon, where you may have a chance of release if one lived or was traded. On the prison ships, the only escape was death. The corpse was carried off the vessel wrapped in a death shroud if a dingy was there and happened to be going to shore. Sometimes the bodies were just thrown overboard, the shallow floor of the harbor their grave.

Hugh Bordon knew that he had hit a nerve by the wild eyed, scared look on the Burwell girl's face. Truly though, he didn't wish to send her away.

"Now, Miss Burwell," he said, adopting an official tone and an officer's stance, "What will it be? Be sent away to some type of prison and lose what freedom and comfort you have just so that you don't have to endure humiliation? Or stay here, a captive in your own home with some privileges and relative comfort, for the small price of a bit of slander?"

The young lady opened her mouth, but the words wouldn't come out. Instead, she stared mutely at the captain, as if he should choose the fate for her.

"You have exactly five minutes," he informed tersely. "I'll expect an answer then." With that, Captain Bordon turned about quickly and walked a few feet to the edge of the woods, leaving his ward alone with her thoughts.

Feeling embarrassed after the officer had just reproached her for complaining of gossip about her, she looked down at the ground, tapping her toe quietly in the grass. Though she hated being the subject of rumors, she realized that she and those around her knew the truth, and that some talk was indeed a small price to pay for freedom and comfort. She felt remorse at having taken her comfort for granted and had to be reminded just how much more lucky she was than most captives.

"I'd like to stay at home, please," she whispered, flushed red in embarrassment at her oversight.

"I thought so," answered Hugh. "Wise decision, lass."

The two emerged from the brush and walked in the direction of the road, neither saying a word. After a moment of quiet strides, Betsy broke the silence.

"You usually have more patience with me," she reminded the officer in a subdued yet childlike voice.

"You're right," he agreed. "I hope you'll remember that the next time you feel the need for a childish tantrum."

/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/

"Did you learn anything that could benefit us," Colonel Tavington asked before he spooned a bit of oatmeal into his mouth.

"No. But we have made a formidable impression on them," answered Captain Bordon. He took a sip of tea, then added, "They are certainly afraid of us."

The small group of dragoon officers sat around the table in the dining room of the Burwell's home. Tavington had only been interested in the intelligence aspect of the Lansing and Day wedding the day before. He had hoped that his second in command might hear some new tidbit of information that they could use. So far, as for the fright and apprehension of the locals toward them, he already knew of it and they were certainly doing their best to exploit that fear.

The pretty quadroon servant named Myriam brought in a plate of toast which she sat on the table in front Lieutenant Wentworth. He took a slice and started the tray around the table, handing it to Captain Wilkins. The maid moved to the other side of the table and handed a bowl of fresh apple slices to Cornet Kidwell. She removed the teapot from the table, then headed out of the room with it in hand to refill, and just squeaked past young Polly Callon, who was bringing more freshly cooked bacon to the table.

"You're wanted in the parlor, Captain," the young servant said as she placed the platter of meat on the table.

"Oh. Thank you," he replied, wiping his mouth with the napkin. He scooted his chair back from the table and stood, addressing his fellow officers. "Excuse me, gentlemen." Then he quickly exited the room, the sound of his boots on the wood fading as he crossed the breezeway and moved into the house.

Entering the parlor, he found Miss Burwell standing there, gazing out the window. She seemed lost in thought, obviously not hearing him enter. He chose to stay quiet for a moment, regarding her silently.

Her slender, lithe figure covered in a plain work dress, was rumpled already under her apron. Her sandy brown hair, up on her head, already had tendrils of tired curls falling out of it. The officer could tell she'd already been attending to the chores of the farm this morning, and had interrupted them to summon him to the parlor.

He cleared his throat, drawing her attention from the window, turning to look at him. "You summoned, Miss Burwell?"

"Yes," she answered simply; quietly. The girl picked up a violin that was routinely positioned on a stand at the foot of the pianoforte. She looked affectionately at the beautiful instrument as she spoke to the officer. "This was my mother's. I was never much of a musician, not able to play this or the piano. She, however, was one of the best fiddlers in this area."

"I see," answered Bordon, a bit confused. He had noticed the fiddle, which never left its spot next to the piano, since the night they first raided the Burwell plantation. The dragoon adjutant had wondered why such splendid instruments were never utilized. Now he knew.

"The last time Mama played this was a couple of weeks before she died," Betsy said, looking sadly at the instrument, her fingertips touching the strings lovingly. "It just sits there now, gathering dust."

The officer nodded his head, saying nothing, not sure what the girl wanted. Maybe his playing yesterday reminded her of her mother, making her sad. Maybe she just needed to talk.

A moment of awkward quiet passed between them; Hugh Bordon admiring the beautiful violin and the youthful, loving daughter of its owner that held it. And Betsy, lost in reflection of her mother and how she used to play.

The young lady sighed and broke the silence. "Captain, the fiddle just sits here, which probably isn't good for it."

With that, she handed the violin to the officer. "You may play it here in the parlor, anytime you like. I mean, it needs to be played," she said slowly, as if apprehensive about letting some other musician play her mother's beloved fiddle.

"It's a fine instrument, indeed," he remarked kindly, looking over the violin after receiving it from the girl.

"At least play this one until your new fiddle arrives," Miss Burwell said, nervously.

"Thank you," the captain answered graciously, smiling at her. "I assure you, that I will put it to good use." With that, he raised the key cover on the piano as the girl hurried from the room.

As Betsy headed down the hallway, she heard the officer plinking notes on the piano, then tuning the strings of the violin. And as she rounded the corner to rejoin the servants in the preparation kitchen at the back of the house, she heard him drawing the bow across the strings, warming up. The girl was amazed at just how fast he'd tuned the instrument, readying it to play.

In the kitchen, Mrs. Leyanova was pouring a wet mixture of cake dough into a pan while Myriam chopped fruit to put into a pie for later. Betsy took her place back at the table, pushing her hands into the bread dough. The flat smell of the flour on the unbaked bread loaves sitting nearby, blended with the scent of the cut apples and the cake, made for a lightly sweet aroma hanging over the room.

As the three ladies worked, the sound of a single violin curved softly down the hall and into the room. Myriam and Leyanova both stopped their work, looking first out into the hallway, then at each other. The song was light and beautiful, 'Be Thou My Vision'.

"Well, now, that is the mistress' fiddle," Mrs. Leyanova said as her face lit up in a grin. "I'd know that sound anywhere!"

"Yes, but who is playing?" asked Myriam.

Betsy, who hadn't stopped kneading the bread, answered. "Captain Bordon. It turns out that he is a very fine fiddle player."

The two servants smiled at each other, loving the sound of the music which brought with it good memories of the late Katy Burwell. "It is well to have some music in the house again," commented Myriam as she went back to her cutting.

Betsy, too, smiled serenely, and spoke as she worked with the bread dough. "We should probably fetch the captain's plate, and keep it warm. I have a feeling he is going to be occupied with his music for awhile."


	26. Chapter 25: Avoiding the Inevitable

**Hi all. As usual, sorry it took so long to post this update. Wendy is back in school now, however overtime at work continues. I edited/proofread this quickly, so let me apologize now for missed errors…I'll get them corrected sometime soon! Thanks for staying with the story and suffering thru long times between updates. I appreciate you all!**

**Enjoy**

**Author**

Chapter 25: Avoiding the Inevitable

Autumn of 1777 passed into winter more quickly than Betsy Burwell liked. And though the South Carolina winters were mild, the cold seemed to chill the girl to the bone, making her feel as if it would take nearly all of the next summer for her to warm up again. Having the enemy living near her in her home left her feeling almost as cool as the season did.

The turn of the year from 1777 into 1778 was uneventful, thankfully for all the residents on the Burwell plantation. The dragoons had been ensconced there for six months. It had been decided that they would keep the billet at the Burwell's throughout the cold season, effectively making that their winter quarters and saving them a move elsewhere.

As usual, the servants and slaves talked and grumbled amongst themselves daily, wondering when the lobsters were going to leave or if they were going to stay there for the rest of the war. They desired to hide all shovels, hammers, saws and other tools, afraid that at any minute they would be asked to start digging redoubts and building wooden fortifications around the farm, making it an official British stockade. They jokingly called it Fort Tavington, knowing that the colonel would never abide Fort Burwell, or Burwell's Station.

While the other residents on the farm worked, jested, and worried, Betsy had grown depressed. She grieved her late mother and dead brother, missing them in earnest. The girl tended their graves regularly. Everyone left her alone when she was in the cemetery, and she was grateful for it. It gave her moments to cry quietly, pouring her woes out to whatever familial spirits happened to linger nearby.

Her father, Colonel Harry Burwell, remained in a camp with his men somewhere in one of the Carolinas. Betsy had received no letters or word from him. The girl needed him and missed him worse. She wanted his love; needed his protection. Her heart hurt, for she had convinced herself that his actions, or lack of, to contact her or try to visit under a white flag, meant that he loved his men and duty more than her. To her, it was glaringly apparent that she was not important enough for him to bother with.

It was the same with her fiancé, George Rogers Clark, who had been given the command of an army to be raised by him, and was bestowed the rank of Colonel. The young officer had his hands full managing the western front of the war out on the frontier. It seemed that whenever Miss Burwell picked up Rivington's Gazette, or one of the other newspapers, she read about Clark's success over the British and Indians in the hinterland of the colonies. Unfortunately, the broadsheets also reported the women he squired about or hinted at rumors of his supposed heavy drinking, depending on what publication she read. Again, she grappled with feeling rejected by her fiance, convincing herself that George probably found it more exhilarating to be fighting a war than to be home with a wife.

The young lady also missed the social life of the village. She missed seeing the local merchants and villagers—at least the sympathetic ones that understood her plight with the British. In particular, she longed to spend time with her friends, even for something as mundane as giggling over something silly. More and more of her friends and the locals were moving away, trying to find a safe haven from the war, or following a soldier that had joined the fight.

Some of her friends were getting married. Mostly, she missed her newly married friend, Hannah. And though the new Mrs. Day came to visit, and Miss Burwell was allowed to visit the newlyweds at their farm—with a dragoon guard—things had changed. After all, Hannah was a wife now, being not so free anymore, having quit her parents' home to live with her husband and keep house there. She didn't have the leisure time she had before marriage.

The Burwell servants and slaves were always loyal; always taking care of and watching over her. But they knew the boundary, never forgetting that the young lady who was mistress of the farm was also a part of South Carolina gentry. That buffer often kept them from enjoying any closer confidence with the young woman.

It seemed that the closest person of all to Betsy was an enemy officer. Indeed Captain Hugh Bordon was her confidant and protector. He was the only redcoat that was truly nice to her. She often sought his advice as well as his help with problems. She welcomed his efforts to try to keep her spirits up when she lamented to him. And sometimes while on duty or off, they spent an increasing amount of time together. The captain shared board with her when he didn't eat with the officers. He sometimes accompanied her when she rode about the plantation, inspecting the grounds. An unlikely friendship and trust had developed between them. Sometimes, Betsy found herself wanting more.

The girl was painfully aware of how handsome she found the captain. And, in her heart, she carefully guarded a secret. She harbored a growing attraction to the redcoat leader that she could do nothing about. Sometimes, she thought she could see a sparkle in his eye, and dared to hope that maybe he held affection for her as well. However, knowledge of how duty driven the man was, coupled with his honor demonstrated to her that he was far too disciplined and gentlemanly to act upon it. So she kept her feelings under wraps, and reminded herself that she was to marry George.

Miss Burwell also prayed and wished that the war would end soon, not caring who the victor would be. The sooner it was over, the sooner Major Clark would come here and take her as his wife. The sooner it ended, the sooner her father would return home to the farm. The sooner it would end, the quicker these lobsters would be on their way—although she had to admit that she would miss Captain Bordon.

And so the girl pined away the winter, keeping her secrets and longings hidden deep within her soul.

To the billeted cavalry, the cold season meant something entirely different. It meant winter quarters and a degree of boredom. The cooler weather and lack of fighting and raiding brought a sense of dread, especially the officers. It now meant they had more time on their hands to do nothing.

Winter quarters, to Hugh Bordon, meant dread over the lack of fighting and raiding which meant more time in his room to think about and miss his wife and son. Cholera had taken Robbie and Sarah so suddenly. He mourned for them still after 2 ½ years. And he grieved the unborn child that Sarah carried within her, taking the babe to the grave with her. He often wondered about the child. Was it a girl? Was it a boy? Could it be twins? He thought the baby lucky to forego burial in a cold pine box for the soft confines of a mother's womb. All his family did was love him and keep the home fires burning. What had they done to deserve early deaths, he often agonized. After all, he was the one killing soldiers, stringing up rebellious colonists, making underhanded deals for information, confiscating property, burning buildings, and occasionally forcing himself on women. And all he ever received were survivable wounds. The captain felt certain that had Sarah lived, she would have borne him many more children. The officer had wanted more sons, but he had wanted at least one girl to spoil and find a good society husband for.

The grief luckily, did not consume him totally. Often he played his fiddle. Bordon finally received not a violin, but money from his parents instead, which he used to purchase a fine instrument in Charles Towne and some new music to go with it during a visit there before the autumn ended. He practiced often, happy to have music for an occasional companion, and glad for the challenge of learning some new tunes.

The captain missed his family and friends in England. For all the winters he had spent in the colonies, he had missed having a fine English Christmas and celebration of the New Year in London. Yet, strangely, he wasn't eager to go back to Britain, knowing that the quiet of the English countryside could never match the excitement of war.

Captain Bordon did indeed miss the fighting. He fully intended to reenlist his commission when it was up. Being quartered so much in the cold weather meant that he spent much time catching up on the brigade paperwork—a boring but necessary 'hazard' of being second in command.

The captain gambled occasionally with the officers and enlisted men. He drank some, and whored when he had the manly need to. Sometimes, his mind turned to a certain young girl, whose nearness rattled him.

His growing affection for Miss Burwell never ceased to surprise him. He wondered what kind of a woman she would become. What kind of wife and mother she would make.

Tavington's words uttered to him months ago were never far out of his thoughts. "Bordon, if you want to fuck the Burwell girl, just cease the slow seduction and have at it!" He _could_ have the young woman in his bed. He knew that she trusted him that much that he could help himself to her virtue. But it would be fleeting. And, he would lose the trust she had given him.

For certain, Hugh could not start a romance with her; it was a breach of officer's decorum to have a love relationship with an enemy prisoner. The other officers would look down on him if he openly courted her. Society or not: she was a colonial rebel. He dismissed her as a babe in the woods. Besides, the captain needed her confidence in him for his intelligence purposes.

Bordon's superior officer, Colonel William Tavington spent time at winter quarters wishing it away, as well.

He, as most of his men, wanted more action.

The colonel was thankful that the brutal summer heat was now gone. Other than the resolve of the insolent colonists, the hot Carolina weather had been the hardest thing to get used to after having grown up in the cool climate of Britain. He was pleasantly surprised to find the southern colonies' winters were mild. They could be cold, but there was nearly no snow. It seemed to rain more in this season which hindered the passing of horses and wagons with supplies. All in all, he and his men were happy not to have to ride that much in great coat and heavy clothing, without which made life in the cavalry easier during that cold.

William Tavington kept himself busy as best he could. He did his duty. He caught up his correspondence. He questioned detainees, drilled his soldiers on nicer days and interviewed recruits. He studied maps when he could get his hands on them. Read what broadsheets he could get hold of. Rode patrols and conducted searches and raids, though there wasn't much property destruction or skirmishes. It had seemed that either the rebels had disbanded temporarily and were keeping to their homes, or had marched northward to join any winter battles there.

The dragoon commander had conferred closely and frequently with the Generals through the winter, assessing the situation. They made the decision to keep the Green Dragoons here, just to have some show of force and not look as if they had abandoned the Carolinas to the rabble. The choice had also been made, for the time being, to confine the war to the Northern colonies as they were having a good run of success there quelling the revolution. They needed to concentrate men there in case they needed to make a sudden march to the Northwest Territory, where Colonel George Rogers Clark's men were wreaking havoc and turning the Indians from the redcoat cause. The most obvious reason for keeping the war confined to the northern colonies was due to the mounting bills the British government had incurred during the fighting. War was a costly business.

Gambling and drinking helped the colonel ease the burden of excess time during these weeks. He spent time wrapped in the embrace of his favorite whore of the moment, Minnie. And sometimes he found occasion to sneak away to a town brothel just to spend time with some different strumpets since the choice in camp was limited. William managed upon occasion to get away to the widow Selton's farm, usually coming up with some viable military excuse to travel there. He found Charlotte all too willing to please him; her arms, bed, and between her legs a warm place to wrap himself in.

The officer's mind kept busy mulling over different ways in which to obtain rebel officers or officials—even their family members would do, the same as them imprisoning Miss Burwell. Tavington wanted to crush the rebels and steal their hope for he had had seen time and time again that eliminating their leadership worked well. Working from the top down was always a plan favored by him. His adjutant, Bordon, seemed to take a more optimistic look at the situation. Though thrilled to capture an officer, the captain was happy to imprison some low colonial, an enlisted man, sympathizer, or even a by proxy relative. To him, he was content to win the war from the bottom up one colonial at a time. A rebel imprisoned, turned, or executed was one step closer to colonial capitulation. William differed, always wanting the glory of catching some top official or officer, thinking it would bring the rebels to their knees faster.

Tavington had grown more irritated by the day, then the week, then the month, that Colonel Burwell and Colonel Clark had done seemingly nothing to rescue their beloved Betsy. With the winter season slow and rebel officials huddled in their homes and winter quarters, it seemed his only chance remaining in the lingering cold was to try somehow to lure Harry Burwell and Colonel Clark to him, and that was something he intended to rectify soon.

So, Colonel Tavington decided to play an old card with a bit more fervor.

*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*

_February 1778…._

Having been summoned to Colonel Tavington's office this morning, Miss Burwell walked pensively through the door. Her wrists, bound together in front of her, made the girl even more apprehensive, wondering what capitol offense she had committed. As Private Kelly tied her wrists a moment ago, she protested, knowing she could question an enlisted man without being accused of insolence. All Kelly could tell her was that it was Colonel Tavington's orders. And although the dragoons had been in residence there now for months, Betsy and her servants were always cautious and on edge around the dragoon leader, whose lack of patience was well known to all around him. Time in one place had not served to dissolve that any. The girl took a seat and swallowed hard when the colonel shut the door. Then, hearing the lock click, she shivered in fear, always afraid to be alone with this particular redcoat.

Betsy had always felt a sort of dismay in _this_ one room of the house. She had grown up with it as her father's office; Harry's domain. The girl, as a child, had been afraid to enter the office, usually only at her father's behest, and usually only for a stern scolding or appropriate punishment. Then it had been hers temporarily, before the Green Horse had shown up. She had overcome her childish fear of the room out of necessity to run the day to day operations of the plantation. But now, she found herself frightened again to be sitting in the room, alone with a brutal enemy who had hurt her twice in this very room: once slicing both palms open, and once to whip her when she had refused to sign treacherous papers.

The young woman dared not look at the colonel. Instead, she fixed her gaze on the massive old desk before her. The papers and books upon it, which had always been familiarly sloppy, a welcome disarray of the Burwell's books and farm papers, was now cold and organized into precise piles of dragoon paperwork and reports.

Her mind didn't stay focused on the cold, hard desktop for long. Betsy's mind soon went back to wondering what she had—or had not—done to land her in front of the commander in chains. She strained to remember, quickly processing scenes in her mind of her life in the last hours and days. What had she done? What didn't she do? Had she said something coarse? Perhaps someone had lied about her to get her into trouble? Whatever her trouble, the lass wished that Captain Bordon, the voice of reason, was here, for he had a gift of controlling some of the whims of his superior. Bad treatment seemed to happen when Bordon was not about. And at this moment, he was out at the end of the field, drilling with the men. He may as well have been a million miles away.

The colonel did not take a seat. Instead, he turned and looked out the window of the office, noting the activity that went on outside. After a moment passed, he clasped his hands behind his back and spun slowly back around. Still standing, he stared down hard at the girl.

Tavington broke the intense silence. "Your father is no easy man," the officer commented.

"He is dedicated to the matter at hand," Betsy replied.

"His dedication is misplaced." Tavington expressed his opinion freely, manipulating the captive.

"Sir?" She kept her words short, trying to remember not to give too much away.

"He seems Hell bent on continuing his treason," William explained. "He has no concern for the welfare of his daughter."

Betsy swallowed hard and said nothing, wondering where this was leading. She needed to stay as quiet, or as vague as possible. She reminded herself that the dragoon leaders were adept at gleaning shards of information out of the smallest of answers.

"Your fiancée is rather busy to give a care, it would seem," Colonel Tavington teased. "You would think that he would grow bored with the barren frontier."

"Both are men sworn to the fighting," she answered, a trace of defiance in her voice.

"And when your fiancé isn't fighting, he's occupied elsewhere," the dragoon commander jeered with a smirk. "I hear he is quite handy with the women." The colonel looked down at the desk. He pinched a bit of fine sand out of the container next to the inkwell. He rubbed it between his thumb and pointer, then let it snow back into the jar. "I wonder whose bed he shared last night?"

Betsy did not dignify the remark with a response. She wanted to. She wanted to tell the colonel to go to Hell. But she didn't, keeping silent and chafing under the redcoat commander's scrutiny and teasing.

Then her mind began to wander. The girl wondered again if George and her father cared for the welfare of their men more than her. She wondered why they could spare no men, even a small contingent, to rescue her. Finally, she cringed inside, indeed wondering where—and with what woman—her fiancé spent his nights.

The sound of Colonel Tavington hitting his fist against his desk in exasperation drew her from her musings. His words echoed her own thoughts. "Why won't either of them trade themselves for you?" he queried of her, as if she knew the answer. "Why not rescue you? I wouldn't leave my pretty, young, virtuous daughter with the enemy. The men here are a pack of hungry wolves."

"They can't leave their men," were the only defensive words Miss Burwell could find.

"Which makes them traitors and leaves you vulnerable," he proclaimed as he eyed the prisoner.

"I know you are afraid," Tavington said in all frankness. "Perhaps…..for once….I will allow you to write to your father or Colonel Clark, without my censor. You can tell them of your fear."

The colonel seldom allowed Miss Burwell to write to anyone. When she did, the letters could not go out without his approval for fear of her revealing something to someone in some kind of code. The girl couldn't even send a dinner invitation to her best friend Hannah Lansing Day without it having to go through a dragoon censor.

The notion made Betsy let her guard down. She had hope now, that if she could write letters to her father or George that truly conveyed her fright, and they could feel her emotion as they read them, then maybe it would stir them to some kind of action to help her. Betsy did not even entertain the thought that maybe the two officers' hands were tied, and were helpless with a war on, to alleviate the young lady's situation.

"You would?" she asked cautiously.

"Perhaps," he replied with a sinister smile. "Maybe I'll send him a message of my own. I'm sure that a lock of your hair or a drop of your blood on a strip of material from your undergarment might get their attention."

Panic flowed in Betsy's veins, warming her to a flush. The girl knew instantly what he meant. She hadn't forgotten the threat that Tavington had made to her father in person last summer.

"No! Please!" the girl beseeched. "Please be reasonable, sir. I'm sure that another bargain can be arranged!"

"Miss Burwell, I have no patience where traitors are concerned," he began menacingly. "And it is beyond reason to me why a band of unorganized rag tags would want to challenge the most powerful nation on this Earth! I'm tired of waiting!"

Colonel Tavington stomped around the desk, undoing the buttons on his red and green jacket as he did. "Your father should have traded himself when he had the chance," growled the officer as he took off his coat. "He could have had an easy imprisonment," William informed as he tossed his jacket onto a chair. His frustration poured out in breathy words though his gritted teeth. "Bloody Hell! He's an officer. He would probably be given parole."

Forgetting herself in the heat of the moment, Betsy jumped to her feet, speaking back to the officer. She was tired of the colonel's accusations against her father and desired to defend him. "He'd never surrender! He knows you'd hang him. He'd rather die honorably, fighting with his men. That goes as well for Colonel Clark!"

"I have not been deputized to execute," the commander lied as he rolled up the sleeves of his white linen shirt. The generals actually _had_ given Tavington's legion free rein to conduct business in the area, as long as rebellion was quelled.

"I don't believe you!" she shot back. "You burn houses; seize property; kidnap; rape!"

The sound of the word 'rape' in her young girl voice, such a raw accusation, stopped the officer momentarily. They had been in the area now for months and rumors about how they conducted duty had run rampant, instead of the horrid crime staying as just a dirty little secret way of imposing intimidation. Tavington raised his eyebrows and smiled like some mad genius. "Ah, yes. Assault. It can be very effective."

Suddenly, ice cold terror flooded over Betsy, realizing now why she was bound. Speechless, the young lady's countenance twisted into evident fright and incredulity. Inside her head, her mind seemed to trip over flashes of thoughts, unable to organize them enough to be able to stay calm and think of a way out of this situation.

"Maybe it is time for your father and your fiancé to be punished for their treason," the colonel warned ominously. "I think I shall make good on my threat to take your virginity."

Betsy gulped, though her throat suddenly felt so tight as to nearly cut off her breathing. "No, colonel, please don't!" she begged, shaking her head in disbelief. She had to save herself somehow. At the moment, bargaining with what little she had left seemed to be the only option. "You could send me to the prison," she began, "or the dungeon in Charles Towne." She hoped that offering the loss of her freedom and subsequent absence from the plantation would interest him instead.

The officer did not bite. "No! I think I will release you to your father instead….. with a dragoon bastard in your belly," the dragoon leader taunted. "Do you think Colonel Clark will see fit to raise a redcoat by blow as his own?"

In an instant, Betsy tore from her seat and ran to the door, where her bound hands reached for the doorknob. Equally as fast, Colonel Tavington kicked the chair over and out of the way as he raced to meet the girl there. She fumbled with the knob, unable to get a good grasp of the damned thing. As she raised her hands to pound on the wood, hoping to get the attention of anyone near, the officer's hand clamped firmly over her mouth. He grabbed her about the waist firmly with his other arm and hustled the fighting girl away from the door. She struggled with her might to get out of his grasp.

The dragoon commander dragged the squirming girl to the divan, and threw her on to it. He landed on top of her hard, pinning her down. Tavington wrestled her bound arms to above her head, holding them there with one of his hands. "I swear to Christ if you scream, I'll hurt you worse than a simple fuck will hurt!" he threatened.

"No. Don't," Betsy begged, her voice no more than a whisper. The girl knew he would make good on it. He had hurt her before.

Colonel Tavington tossed the girl's skirts out of the way then roughly kneed her legs apart. The man then pushed her dress up the rest of the way to her hips, where it lay askew in bunches and rolls at the top of her thighs.

All poor Betsy could do was shake her head in disbelief at how fast everything was happening. Tears blurred her vision as she squirmed and whimpered, trying to get out from under the man. She continued her struggle even as she watched the colonel undoing the placket of his breeches.

Tired of the girl fighting, he slapped her face as he scolded her. "Lay still, missy! It will be over before you know it!"

The hot sting in her left cheek seemed to stun her, effectively stopping her tears and sobs. Her scared, saucer eyes beheld the man in fright as he freed his hardened manhood from his pants. She glimpsed his erection for only an instant before she closed her eyes hard.

The officer still had a restraint on Miss Burwell's hands, having them pinned down still above her head. Gripping his stiffened cock, he positioned himself between her legs, ready to skewer the young miss' virtue.

A knock at the door stopped him before he could enter the girl. "Colonel?" a voice called through.

Tavington glared silently down at the girl, his eyes warning her to remain silent. He recognized the voice as belonging to one of his cavalrymen. "This had better be good, Donovan."

"You have a message from Mrs. Selton," the private answered.

"I'm busy now," the officer growled. "Come back with it later."

Betsy lay still beneath his weight, scared even to breathe. She silently prayed that the dragoon private was stupid or audacious enough to enter without permission.

"It may be urgent sir," Donovan countered. "A rider from her farm just rode up with it."

Now, having been told that the message was brought by one of the widow's own servants, he was no longer interested in the thin, young, virgin on the couch beneath him. Instead his interest wandered to his mistress from the next county over. The blonde, beautiful, curvy, and experienced-in-the-matters-of-the-bedroom woman always grabbed his attention. Mrs. Selton was more than eager to satisfy the dragoon commander, and he was more than happy to let her do that, always enjoying her attentions.

William rocked himself backwards to a sitting position and tugged his breeches back up. Betsy stayed on the couch a moment, gasping for breath as the colonel rose from her body. The girl did not move, unsure what the man's intentions were. For the moment, she was grateful for the letter from the widow Selton.

"You may go, little girl," he advised with a sneer.

Betsy pushed her skirts down and rose slowly, cautious not to make any sudden moves. She nearly tiptoed toward the door. Before she could turn the doorknob, she jumped back with a start, finding Tavington in front of her again. He had purposely put himself between the girl and her way out, looking menacingly down at her. His ice blue eyes staring that cold hard gaze of his was enough to make anyone freeze in place.

"You have a reprieve," he informed. "Temporarily."

Betsy said nothing, too afraid to speak. Her rounded eyes gave away the fear within.

"You can count on my words, girl," he warned. "I do intend to help myself to your virtue. You may as well square with that. You _will_ find me between your legs again. And who knows? Maybe I will share you with the other officers. Your father and Colonel Clark will not be able to deny that His Majesty's Dragoons claimed your innocence."

Holding her breath as she watched Colonel Tavington turn the doorknob, she gathered her courage and bolted through the door. She ran down the hall, up the stairs, and into her room, where she closed the door, locked it, and even tilted a chair up under the knob for good measure, stupidly thinking she could keep the world out of her domain.

Betsy sat on the bed, panting and out of breath. Then, her head dropped down, landing in her hands into which she sobbed pitifully. After a moment of free falling tears and woe-is-me sobs, she stopped, took a breath and composed herself. She willed herself to try to think clearly about if and how she could combat the colonel's advances.

The girl stayed calm and quiet for a moment as she tried to come up with some options. She thought she could write to her father or fiancé, desperately describing her fright. Most likely they couldn't spare the men or their own time away, and would have to hope that the colonel was only bluffing. If they did answer and perchance came with a bargain trade, she knew that the dragoons would hang them for perceived treachery.

Speaking of this matter to Captain Bordon was out of the question—she knew he wouldn't believe her. He had nearly succeeded in making her doubt her own eyesight when she revealed that she had seen Colonel Tarleton assault the blacksmith's daughter. It was a hard fact understood by all who knew the Green Dragoons, that they were a brotherhood. They quickly closed ranks on outsiders and defended each other tooth and nail. If by some slim chance the second in command _did_ believe her, he had already warned her that he could not protect her from his superior.

Betsy could tell Mr. Hantz or Mr. Waldron, her loyal farmhands and friends to her father who had protected the girl in the past. However, she knew that any attempt they made to try to aid her would be rewarded with some sort of punishment from the dragoons, if not execution.

No. None of the options she could think of would work. Betsy _was_ truly on her own with this dilemma.

It seemed as if the colonel's threat would come to fruition, just as it nearly did moments ago save for an interruption. She couldn't bear the thought of THAT man stealing her virginity. Yet she couldn't give in and resign herself to the fact that he, not George, would spoil her. How could she defend herself against the officer? How could she keep her maidenhead intact for George Clark, as her husband, to have the honor to break it?

Flustered and unable to think straight, Miss Burwell collapsed onto her bed. She curled her body tightly into a fetal position, holding her knees firmly against her trunk trying to quell the sobs that shook through her core. And as she wept, she pondered the fate of her innocence, little faith that she would remain unstained for long.

/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/

For Betsy, the day following Tavington's advance had been an easy one for the man was gone. She had heard a couple of the privates talking, saying that Mrs. Selton was visiting a nearby town, and Colonel Tavington had ridden out to meet her, anxious to spend time with his mistress. Indeed the dragoon commander was good at combining official duty with a visit to see Charlotte at home or wherever she was. No one could accuse him of shirking his responsibilities in favor of a mistress.

Miss Burwell hoped that Tavington's jaunt to visit his mistress left him satisfactorily sated. Still, she knew she would have to be ever vigilant and looking over her shoulder upon his return. The girl even dared to hope that the officer would be captured by provincials on his way back.

This morning, even amidst Colonel Tavington's absence, Betsy's nerves were frayed. She seemed to be a bundle of jitters as she traversed the hallway to the plantation's office. It grew worse the closer she got to the door. And upon arrival there, she shivered as torrents of memory from the day before washed through her mind. She hesitated in the doorway, not wanting to enter the office.

Instead, she stood there quietly, trying to push the thoughts of Colonel Tavington's misdeed from her mind as she stared absently at Captain Bordon. It was benign and safe for he sat in the chair at the desk attending to the administrative duties of the legion. The officer dropped a bit of melted wax on an envelope, sealing a letter. He looked up and noticed Miss Burwell standing silently, looking lost, leaning against the doorjamb.

He cocked his head, looking quizzically at the girl. Then he spoke. "It's alright. You may enter."

The officer's deep voice pulled the girl from her thoughts. "Yes, sir," she mumbled as she bobbled into a clumsy curtsy, then entered the room. She made her way to the chair situated in front of the desk. She was still firmly in the grip of apprehension as she sat down. A chill came over her, recalling what nearly happened in this room the day before.

Finally, Betsy forced herself to push the dreaded recollections from her mind. She focused on Captain Bordon, sitting before her at the desk, attending to the mundane duties of administration.

The officer pushed the sealer into the wax then set the envelope aside. He smiled quietly as the young lady as he moved some papers about on the desk. Again, he noticed that the girl was acting odd. She sat ramrod straight in her seat on the edge of it, to him, looking as if she was ready to jump from it and run away at any instant.

"Is something wrong, Miss Burwell?" he inquired.

Betsy realized that her actions were giving her away. She knew damned well, yet always seemed to forget that Captain Bordon knew her well and could nearly guess her thoughts and guage her emotions. She took a deep breath and relaxed back in her chair, trying to look as if nothing was out of the ordinary. "Oh, no," she answered, trying to sound confident. "Nothing."

Bordon nodded then spoke. "The generals have asked Colonel Tavington to host a party here for some important visitors from England. This is the guest list," he informed as he handed the paper over the desk to Betsy.

"Please see that they are all invited," the captain directed. The youth nodded as she looked over the list silently.

"There is someone who isn't on the list," Bordon said in a measured tone.

"Oh?" Betsy looked up from the paper, ready to receive more instruction.

"Colonel Tavington would like Mrs. Selton to be invited."

Miss Burwell frowned. While she was thankful when Tavington was gone to see her, she wasn't particularly thrilled to have that woman here for the two of them to carry on in her home. "Haven't you heard the talk about her? Do you think it is wise to include her?"

"It doesn't matter what I think," Hugh Bordon replied. Then he stared squarely at the girl, his eyes full of stern rebuke. "We have spoken about gossip before," he reprimanded. "I seem to recall that_ you_ don't like being the subject of it."

"You're right," she answered. "But I am innocent of what is said of me. She is not. She is a lobster kettle!"

"Watch your mouth, lassie!" he scolded.

"But she is!" Betsy countered. "Everyone knows that she is Colonel Tavington's mistress. There are those who say that she beds him just to keep him from burning her house down."

"Miss Burwell, you will cease your accusations this instant," warned the captain. "He wants her invited and that is final!"

"Yes sir," she replied. "Will she be spending the night? Do I need to have a room ready for her?"

"No need," Bordon answered.

"I see," Betsy said. "She will be spending the night in Colonel Tavington's quarters."

"What do you think, lassie?!" he shot back sarcastically. He took a breath, getting control of his ire and frustration with the willful girl. She was always questioning decision. "Miss Burwell, I can't very well tell my superior how to act."

"You told me that the officers wouldn't bring women to their rooms!" she reminded, frustrated that Colonel Tavington would have that woman spend the night in his chamber. Betsy knew that word of that would eventually make its way around.

"No," Bordon answered firmly. "I said that the officers would not bring _whores_ into the house."

"Mrs. Selton _is_ a trollop!" argued Betsy.

"No. She is a proper lady of class and distinction," the officer countered sternly.

"Well then," Betsy commented, "She is a strumpet with money and class, which is still a strumpet."

"I will argue this issue with you no further, missy! Just see that she is invited." Bordon's harsh tone and hard look told her that he was finished with this matter, and she knew better than to keep on with it.

"Yes sir."

"It is to be formal," he advised. "You will dress your best that evening. You are also expected to be a kind and gracious hostess since you are mistress of this farm."

"Yes," she answered with a distracted nod. The girl was dismayed at having been told to invite the widow Selton. The rumors flying around about herself were enough to damage the Burwell name—they did not need the presence of the dragoon commander's mistress to add to it. Betsy knew how society worked. If she welcomed Mrs. Selton into their house, it would look as if they condone the conduct of the widow and her illicit affair with a hated redcoat officer. She did not want the widow's bold and disgraceful behavior reflecting on the Burwell's good name, but what could she do?

The girl rose slowly from her chair, then bowed her head and dipped into a curtsy before the captain. The girl walked to the door with the dreaded guest list in her hand, knowing that further argument with the captain was futile.

"Miss Burwell," Bordon called from his desk.

"Yes?" she answered as she looked back at the man from the doorway.

"You may invite Mr. and Mrs. Day."

Her lips parted in question as her eyes sparkled with wonder….and hope. "Truly? I can?"

"Of course," the officer replied warmly. "I've not forgotten the kindness they extended to us last autumn at their wedding. I rather enjoyed conversing with them."

A smile crooked her mouth as her face lit up with joy. "Thank you." She curtsied again, then disappeared quickly down the hall, her heart just a bit lighter about hosting a ball for the enemy.


	27. Chapter 26: Proper Party Etiquette?

Chapter 26: Proper Party Etiquette?

The ballroom and main house of the Burwell plantation flickered against the dark March night, candles burning brightly in all the rooms, making it look like it had come to life as some behemoth. The paths around the house were lined with small luminary lanterns, and torches were dispersed for additional light on the greens. Well dressed people danced, milled about, and sat. Carriages were parked up and down the lane and onto the grass with their drivers standing or sitting about, or stretched out in some spot dozing as they waited on their owners to appear again after an evening of cheer.

Captain Hugh Bordon, who had been in the epicenter of all the activity in the ballroom, wandered away without excusing himself from a group of junior officers. They had been involved in a conversation about some village in Pennsylvania that they had wandered through three years go before joining the cavalry. He had only stood idly about listening to their story. As they droned on, he made the decision to slip away and doubted that they would miss his presence. And frankly, the man was bored.

He made his way to the hors d'oeuvre table, ready to refresh himself with some punch. Once there the redcoat officer opted for some champagne instead. He lifted the glass of bubbly slowly and tentatively to his lips, having second thoughts. The captain knew that he should not have another drink—he'd had enough already. Bordon was at the edge, still clinging to the pleasant side of imbibing, feeling the warmth of the alcohol traversing his body, making him loose and calm. One more drink would make him tipsy. The officer decided to drink slowly, staving off the initial stages of inebriation and loss of control for as long as he could.

The dragoon second in command was a dashing figure with the coupe in his hand, sipping it slowly; almost regally. He was dressed his best in the formal uniform of the cavalry, reserved for only the most formal occasions such as a ball, wedding, or perhaps an appearance before a monarch. All bits of gold buttons and silver buckles on his shoes were polished to glistening. His black shoes, shiny against his stark white stockings, made him look like some prominent Loyalist. He was uncomfortable in these dress shoes—he'd rather be in a pair of casual and broken in riding boots.

His feet hurting in his buckled shoes, Bordon looked around the room for an empty chair. Finding none, he walked toward the wall. He picked an open spot there and leaned on his left side against it, his weight now on his left foot. Crossing his right ankle over his left, he surveyed the party from his casual stance. The musicians played a quadrille as a few couples moved about in time to the music. British red was interspersed with bright and muted material worn by civilians. The guests that weren't moving in time to the music were talking, flirting and drinking. And the Burwell family servants wove their way through the crowd carrying trays, refilling drinks, opening doors, waiting on the guests hand and knee as instructed.

Captain Bordon's eyes scanned the room with purpose, finally picking out the source of his desire from among the party guests, soldiers, and servants flitting about. His gaze came to rest upon Miss Burwell, who was at the door greeting a guest that had arrived late. He watched her as she curtsied deeply to the man, letting him kiss her hand and smiling demurely as he did. And though he could not hear her above the din, he could tell by the concern of interest on her face and how she listened to the man and exchanged words with him that she was being a gracious hostess.

The officer enjoyed watching her and had found his eyes wandering back to find her several times during the evening. The dragoon second in command had to keep those looks discreet lest he reveal his feelings to his fellow soldiers. However, the younger cavalrymen weren't so secretive, nonchalantly speaking of how different she looked from her daily garb of common farm dress, dirty from chores and hair frazzled and mussed, making it hard to tell the well-to-do society girl apart from her own servants.

Indeed, Hugh Bordon nearly choked on his drink when he had seen her hours ago, speaking with the servants at the last minute before the first guest arrived. She had been a vision of loveliness that he was not at all expecting. He had assumed that though formally dressed, that she would look more like a young girl of eleven or so at her first ball, having to leave early with the other children for bedtime. Instead, she looked like a young lady—nigh a young woman—and actually had a bit of curve to that lithe body of hers. He chuckled to himself, imagining her to be some sort of contortionist, or perhaps a liquid genie of some sort, that she was probably folded or poured into her stay.

Bordon knew better, though, from being married and later from having his share in helping to remove the damned things! He knew that the undergarment in question was laced up tightly to create those pleasing curves. The captain recalled seeing Sarah laced—or rather, bound—so tightly into a stay that she could hardly breathe. But that garment of bondage despite its faults did have a definite asset: it created a beautiful bosom with sometimes bountiful cleavage. Now, Miss Betsy Burwell did not have so much of a lady's buxom chest yet, but at least it was there now for him—and all the other men—to notice.

Her newly found curves and cleavage added to the beauty of her frock. Likewise her dress, the palest of blue silk which shimmered even in the candlelight, trimmed with pastel pink and silver, showed off her youthful bosom. The dress must have been purchased in Charles Towne he surmised, for it was of the latest fashion. The young lady's hair had been twisted high onto her head to rival the other more stately women in the room who would have more access to the latest style. She did not over do the jewelry; just a touch of matching dainty earrings and equally as small choker necklace with matching bracelet.

A pale pink fan finished off her attire. Bordon, knowing the way of society ladies, noticed that she had no experience in how to use her fan and speak in the mute language of it. The officer guessed that was due to the fact that her mother had died before her first ball as a young lady of consenting age. Bordon watched her as she used it, not inappropriately, but using it in a childlike way. Small matter, though, for it was not without its charm, reminding all who knew her that she was indeed still a young girl of fifteen with no mother to guide her.

Betsy Burwell's genteel manners as hostess coupled with her youth seemed to win all the people in the room over. And tonight, the captain was more interested in her than ever. The man had been truly beguiled by her and her transformation this evening, and had barely been able to get a gentlemanly greeting past his own lips to the girl, hoping not to appear as an uncultured boor.

He gazed at her still, as he sipped his champagne, and now, for once, had some inkling of what she might just look like as an adult woman and how she might conduct herself. At that moment, he felt a pang in his heart and a growing desire in his loins that he hoped would not turn into a full blown erection. So he fought it the best way he could: he downed the rest of his bubbly then quickly reached for another glass of the same and threw it back fast, as well.

His eyes followed the girl as she strode a few feet from where she stood to join a group that included Mr. and Mrs. Day. The captain cocked his head to the side as he watched Hannah Day, Miss Burwell's close friend, whisper in her ear. He was equally intrigued when the two girls linked arms and sauntered out of the room together, watching them until they disappeared just past the door. He grinned at his own presumption that the two girls, thick as thieves, were leaving to go somewhere quiet, perhaps the parlor, for a delightful gossip.

Pulling himself off the wall where he had so casually leaned and looked like some rogue, he reached out and snagged a fresh glass of madiera from a tray that Raymond, one of the young slaves, was carrying toward the punch table. After a sip, his solace was interrupted when he found his commander standing before him with the beautiful widow Selton on his arm.

The sharp edge of Colonel Tavington's voice, though kept in a low tone, seemed to contrast with the warm softness of the alcohol swimming in Hugh Bordon's body. "Captain, I'm leaving you in charge for a bit. Mrs. Selton needs some air."

"Sir," Bordon acknowledged with a nod as he stood up straight.

The officer watched the couple walk slowly to the door. As they did he grinned and stifled a chuckle. Bordon was no dolt; he knew where they were going. The dragoon adjutant assumed that they were retreating to some quiet corner to couple. He knew his superior only too well, having caught sight upon past occasion, of the colonel rutting some female party guest against a wall or bent over a railing. The captain quickly swallowed the rest of his madeira just as the couple passed though the doorway.

/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/

After a short stroll through the simple gardens of the Burwell plantation with Charlotte on his arm, William Tavington quickly led her around the corner of the nearest outbuilding. It was there, in the dark and away from the others, that the officer pinned Mrs. Selton squarely against the wall. The hard brick of the weaving house was cold against her back, but the dragoon's body pressed securely into her front was warm and inviting.

"William!" she exclaimed. Her startled words were stifled when his mouth crashed into hers. The pretty widow did not protest, instead lazily winding her arms about is neck. Their tongues entwined, tasting the evening's drinks in one another's mouths.

His arms slipped around the lady's middle, one arm holding her firmly to him while the other slid low to caress her shapely backside through many layers of satin dress and linen underskirts. They kissed deeply another moment until his mouth left hers. Tavington's lips then traced her jaw line up to her ear, leaving a searing trail there that coaxed her eyes into a soft flutter.

"William? What?" she asked, her voice a euphoric whisper and her eyes hooded and mesmerized.

"I want you now," he murmured in her ear, his breath on it making her quiver.

She lifted her right leg slightly and lazily twisted it around the colonel's legs, her foot coming to rest on the back of his left calf. "Instead of later in your bed?" Her voice was dreamy as if she were far away, speaking alone into the thin air on some distant mountaintop.

His lips moved from her ear and down her neck, kissing her softly there. As the dragoon commander continued to nuzzle her enticingly, his voice was muffled as he spoke, his mouth against her skin, in answer to her query. "I fully intend to have you there, as well."

He softly urged her legs apart with a gentle nudge to her ankles. She complied, her skirts rustling quietly as they fell between her parted limbs. William brought his right leg upwards, bringing layers of skirt up with it. The officer bent his leg and pressed his knee in between Charlotte's legs. Slowly, he moved his leg to where her womanhood, still shrouded in layers of material, rested firmly on top of his breech covered thigh. Tavington slid it sensually against her. And though there was no direct skin contact between the couple, there was just enough friction from their actions alone to create a delicious, sexual heat.

The widow shivered from the sensation. "We will be caught," she purred.

"No, we won't," he assured her. His lips soon found hers again, where they brushed softly against hers and his tongue teased from between them.

Charlotte began her own rhythm, moving her pelvis back and forth across his thigh. She felt high and dizzy with lust, making her forget momentarily that they were standing against a stark, old brick wall. It was as if they were in the privacy of her room and she was astride his lap, riding his leg. And after a moment of slow strokes against him, the woman began to move her hips in a frenzied fashion, grinding on his leg, needing to feel him.

William lowered his leg, making his lover frown and whimper at his depriving her of that sensation. His last action was to catch one side of her skirt as he lowered his leg, keeping her dress partially raised and exposing her shapely legs.

The colonel's hand snaked below the frilliness of her skirt to where his fingertips soon found the fleshy folds of her sex. He lightly traced her labia then parted the lips to delve further in. The pads of his fingers were met with silky moisture and slid easily over her skin. She had become so wet and aroused that William was pleased to find it had dampened the layer of petticoat closest to her bottom. His fingers spread her creaminess about her quim then two digits pushed up into her wet cave, resting in the warmth within forcing a dreamy sigh from his lady.

He drove his fingers up again, a little deeper this time, then again, slow and deep. Slow and deep. "Oh, William!" Charlotte cooed.

"How wonderful that I make you that wet!" Tavington teased, a look of triumph on his face.

She said nothing then put her mouth to his, where the couple melted into a slow, deep kiss.

The couple's heated foreplay made them forget themselves. Charlotte liked how good Colonel Tavington was in bed, and had grown fond of having him about, though he was the enemy. He loved the womanly experience and willing abandon the widow possessed, enough to give the woman an ease of familiarity and willingness to be daring in bed. Their passion allowed William to forget momentarily that Mrs. Selton was screwing him in return for something. They could tease each other almost affectionately, as if they were true lovers and not trading sex for mutual objectives.

He withdrew his hand from beneath her dress as they continued kissing, her skirts falling back down to cover her legs with a flutter. Her lips left his, moving across his jaw and ending at his ear. The softness of her mouth and breath falling on the shell of his ear made him sigh.

Mrs. Selton's hand moved down his body to the front of his woolen dress pants. She noted that she could feel his arousal and that it was much easier to take care of it through the pliable material of wool rather than the stiff, unforgiving leather of his riding breeches. Charlotte loved this and took advantage of it.

Easily locating his hardened member, she carressed it through the material of his pants, slowly, taking her time to move her hand up and down the full length of it. As she did, she kissed slowly at his neck, wishing that his damned high collar and ascot were not in the way. Her tongue flicked at the skin, tasting him, as her lips left wet kisses at his throat. All the while, her hand pressed into his groin, outlining his erection, making it rage and twitch against her fingers. The low grunts of approval from Tavington assured Charlotte that she was in command of the dragoon commander—at least for this moment.

Charlotte, never afraid to touch the colonel, unfastened the top button of his placket and snaked her hand under the wool to find the warmth of his skin. She gripped his hardness firmly in her fist, and squeezed it tightly, nearly painfully, within her hand. The woman pulsed her grip slowly a couple of times, the colonel's phallus twitching in response. William's mouth sought hers again, taking it in a hard, deep kiss, somehow hoping that may give a bit or relief—or distraction—from what her hand was doing to him.

After a moment of more wet kisses, he felt her fist slide up and down his member, root to tip, then over again. She let go, and let her fingers trace the length of it in feathery light touches, stopping only at the head of it. Charlotte felt his cock weeping already, just a drop. She ran the pads of her fingers over the tip, catching that bit of his cream, and smoothed it around the end of it, massaging his essence into the head.

Then she enclosed his rod in her hand again, and moved it slowly and firmly up and down the shaft once more. Her hand was driving the colonel to shear madness. "Christ woman!" he growled low against her neck.

Another moment of her fisting was all he could take. Tavington was too close to the edge and wasn't thrilled at soiling his dress trousers. He'd rather leave his semen deep inside her warm, wet quim. He put his own hand into his pants just past his waistband and gripped her wrist strongly, effectively stopping her sensual actions.

"Lift your skirt," he commanded.

"Here? William, you are scandalous!" Charlotte pronounced, teasing him in a whisper.

Colonel Tavington responded by nipping playfully at her left earlobe. His response was airy and lost against the peachy fold of her ear. "Just do it!"

The pretty widow complied, reaching downwards slowly, wanting to make her lover wait. Equally as slow, she lazily gathered the many layers of her skirts into her hands. In some remnants of being shy, which had left her years ago, she held the skirt high enough to bare her legs, yet just at the juncture of her thighs to her trunk to hide her bare femininity.

Kneeling before her, William pushed both her hands holding the bunched up material a bit higher, enough to expose her womanhood. He aligned his face with the pale thatch of hair between her legs. After taking an instant to admire her there, he breathed on her blonde curls as he slid his hands behind each of her knees.

Charlotte shivered as he did, just enough for him to notice and let him know just how much he was arousing her. "Ah...William..." Her voice was lost in the ether that she seemed to be caught up in.

He slid his hands up over the backs of her thighs to her bottom. Once there, he kneaded and caressed the round orbs of her ass as he continued to let her feel his teasing breath falling on her pubic hair, which did not create enough of a shield to prevent it from being felt on the skin beneath it.

/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/

Betsy Burwell and her friend Hannah Day had no qualms about leaving the main party area. All the guests that had responded had arrived and were being seen to. The British generals and visiting dignitaries were being charmed by Hannah's husband, John, who spoke frankly of the fertile lands of the colony and more to be found out on the frontier, snagging them with dreams of wide open spaces and monetary possibilities.

The two friends had left the ball, arms linked, looking for a quiet place to catch up on their girly chatter. The rooms of the main house's first floor were not full, but occupied with others seeking quiet spots. The front veranda and lawn had partygoers milling about as well. The two young ladies soon found themselves winding through the small garden on the estate, which seemed to have all its benches full of gossiping women, men smoking pipes, and an occasional couple in the midst of flirtations.

Hannah and Betsy exited the farm's small park and headed on to a gravel path that linked some of the furthest work buildings to her grandfather Burwell's old house next door. Miss Burwell steered them toward the front of the weaving house, which had a small front porch with a bench.

As they rounded a corner in the darkness, they were startled to hear a man and woman speaking softly, interspersed with the wet sounds of kisses. The girls jumped off the path immediately and ducked behind some bushes. The shrubs, which had lost most of their small leaves from the winter, proved a poor hiding place. The young women were sure that they would be seen through the sparse branches.

They both squinted in the darkness as they peered through the foliage—rather, the lack of—trying to discover the identities of the clandestine couple. With only the light of the half moon above, they soon discovered who was against the wall of the weaver's building.

At first, the two girls were astonished to the point of silence to see a couple together, doing naughty things, right there before them. But the stunned silence soon turned to amusement when they identified the two as Colonel Tavington and the widow Selton.

Putting their hands over their mouths, Hannah and Betsy stifled their giggles. "How about that," Mrs. Day whispered humorously. "Fornicating in the open like a couple of hares!"

Betsy choked back a chuckle. "He usually...uh...' interrogates' her in the privacy of her bed chambers, I hear!"

"Looks as if his questions couldn't wait that long," Hannah chortled back.

They looked on in quiet amazement at the position of the two. Mrs. Selton looked to be in the throes of either ecstasy or anxiety. The colonel was on his knees before her, his head between her legs with one of them thrown over his shoulder, seemingly balancing her body and worshiping her at the same time.

"Oh William!" the young ladies heard Mrs. Selton exclaim, "I've missed you so!"

"Oh, what a jest!" Hannah whispered sarcastically. "She will miss her house more after he burns it down!"

"He is busy and placated with her for the moment," Betsy replied back jokingly.

"Yes, for now until he tires of her or she betrays him," Mrs. Day pointed out.

"Her moaning must bolster his manly pride," Miss Burwell smirked.

"This is pathetic," Hannah said, disgusted after a couple of moments of watching the couple. She knew, as most did, that Mrs. Selton went to Colonel Tavington's bed only to keep her plantation intact. "I can't watch anymore of this farce!" Hannah Day stood to leave, but Betsy yanked her skirt, pulling her friend back down into the bushes.

"What are they _doing?" _Miss Burwell asked quietly.

"Don't be so shocked, Betsy. They are not doing anything different from what you read of in Fanny Hill!"

"I don't remember _that_!" she remarked, trying her hardest to keep amazement at the scene from raising her voice above a murmur.

"The book _has _pictures," Hannah reminded in a hushed voice, still watching the couple at work before them.

Apparently, Colonel Tavington and Mrs. Selton hadn't heard the girls and kept on with their amorous pursuits. Either that, or else the two were so passion filled that they cared not at being watched.

"This is different," Betsy insisted quietly. "They are right before our eyes!"

Hannah cocked her head to the side and snickered again as she watched the dragoon commander and the local widow. "Well, seeing it now and considering who it is, it is hilarious!"

The girls laughed again, doing their best to keep the laughter from drifting beyond the confines of the spartan bush that hid them. "Oh, this is disgusting," Hannah murmured. "She is only with him to keep her house."

"I can't watch this anymore," Betsy said as she took her friend's hand. The two slid quietly from their spot, and slinked off into the darkness, heading on the grass out away from the barns and toward the field.

They spoke again once out of earshot of the lovers. "We are not proving to be very good voyeurs, are we?" Hannah's comment made Miss Burwell roll her eyes.

"Why is _she_ here?" asked Mrs. Day as the two friends sauntered in the cool night.

"The colonel insisted she be invited." Betsy looked back the direction of the couple, who were now out of sight, and scowled.

"I suppose she is staying in _his_ quarters," Hannah smirked.

"Of course," answered Betsy. "She didn't even have the decency to request a room of her own for the night, to at least keep up appearances."

"Well, her farm is still standing, so she must be keeping the colonel VERY satisfied!" Hannah burst into laughter at that point. She stopped walking and doubled over as she continued to giggle. Betsy joined in, both girls now trying to keep their mirth contained and quiet.

After a moment, the giggles had died down. The two friends then strolled slowly in the darkness, enjoying a moment of silence.

Betsy broke the quiet with a question to her friend. "Do you and John have relations...like that?" The innocent girl, though 'corrupted by the rubbish of the book Fanny Hill', as Captain Bordon had chided, was truly still fascinated by what she had seen. Having never engaged in the sexual act, she was full of curiosity.

"Well, not against the wall of an outbuilding!" Hannah exclaimed, threatening again to burst into a fit of laughter. "We do_ that_...and more! Usually in our bed, though. We're not as desperate as those two back there!"

"Hannah!"

"You asked!" Mrs. Day shot back. Hannah paused and breathed a sigh. Then she linked her arm through Miss Burwell's in hopes of being a comfort to the inexperienced girl. She coaxed her along in a slow walk.

"Betsy," she began, wanting to reassure her friend, "when you and Colonel Clark are married, you will do things such as that in the privacy of your chambers. And, it will be easy and you won't be embarrassed because you will develop trust and intimacy with him. And I'm sure you will find love with him, as well. You will want to do things like that."

Miss Burwell looked at Hannah and said nothing. Instead, she let out a nervous giggle then forced a smile.

As the two friends walked for a moment in silence, the subject of men and women together in bed would not leave her mind. And the picture of Mrs. Selton and Colonel Tavington stayed in her head. After a moment, it evolved. It went from the fascination of seeing two people coupling, to the Colonel pushing Betsy down onto the couch in his office. She was troubled as she recollected the dragoon commander's advance and then his threat to erase her virginity.

The two stopped, and Betsy pretended to look at the stars in the sky with Hannah, as the married girl pointed out certain stars and constellations. Miss Burwell pondered a moment her desperate situation with Tavington and if she should confess it to her best friend. She wondered if her friend could help, other than emotional support.

However, the image of John Day, Hannah's husband, came into her mind. She recalled how diplomatic and gracious the man had been to invite the dragoons into his wedding reception. And she had witnessed him speaking cordially with many of the party guests tonight, including the British officers. It was apparent to the girl that Mr. Day was trying to help himself and his new young wife by staying as neutral as possible during the conflict, yet be accommodating as far as he could to either side. In the process, he was keeping her, his homestead and his family safe.

No, she thought. She could not bring the Day's into her trouble and put them into the middle of potential dragoon ugliness. Betsy swallowed hard, deciding to keep her mouth shut.

After another quiet moment of stargazing, Hannah turned to Betsy and smiled. "I'm pregnant. You are the second person I have told."

"Oh, Hannah!" Betsy Burwell embraced her friend, having had the feeling that it probably would not have been long after the Day's wedding day to hear news of a child. "When?"

"Near the end of summer," answered Hannah. "We both have to tell our parents yet. Then the news, I'm sure, will be all over the countryside."

"Your secret is safe with me," Betsy promised.

"John would like a son," said Hannah.

"Of course," Betsy laughed. She was not uninformed to that part of life. A son, at least one, was always desired for inheritance and to pass on the family name. She knew that painfully. It was a fact that all women knew and had to make a sort of peace with. "Congratulations! You and John are certainly blest!"

"That we are," Hannah agreed, smiling at her friend.

Just then, she heard a coach leave and turned to look that direction, unable to see the driveway. She knew she had better get back for if one guest was leaving, then soon the others may as well. Miss Burwell knew she had to be the good hostess, as expected by her redcoat captors, and bid adieu to the partygoers. "We should head back now. Your husband will be wondering what happened to you. And I don't need the lobsters thinking I am out here conspiring."

With that, the two friends trotted back toward the brightly lit assembly hall.

/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/

William Tavington shifted his hands from Charlotte's naked bottom to the sides of her ass, gliding his fingers in teasing circles over the curve of her hips. Then, his hands took firm hold of hips, purposefully grabbing her firmly enough to shift her body, moving it forward a bit. This startled a nearly doped feeling Mrs. Selton to attention, and made a sharp pang of anticipation and excitement flash through her body like a bolt of lightning. She gasped, and dropped her head forward, looking with desire at her lover as he held her steadily between his hands.

His mouth moved close to her sex, and he let her feel his hot breath on the outer folds of her moist womanhood, but he was careful not to move in any further. He needed to tease her a bit more.

"William...Oh..."

She watched him intently, seeing only the top of his head but feeling fully the tribute his hands made. His right hand released her left hip and slid down the back of her thigh. His fingertips made trails teasingly down the skin, coming to rest on the sensitive skin on the back of her knee. He moved his fingertips in small circles, feathery light, feeling Charlotte respond with a tremble and a gasp. The officer smiled, then lifted her leg, bending that knee, where he kissed the back of it, again making the lady sigh. Tavington guided her leg higher, and put it over his right shoulder, resting her left leg there.

The colonel placed his right hand back on her left hip, gripping it firmly. Again he let his breath escape on the top and outermost part of her femininity. William wanted her to beg him for it.

As he had calculated, he had set his lover on fire and she was smoldering inside. She groaned, as she looked down at him. "God...William...PLEASE!"

With that, she watched him as he dipped his head and went to his pleasurable task. And she groaned again, this time in relief that he was getting down to business, as she saw his face disappear into the wetness of her intimacy.

And then she felt it. She felt the tip of his tongue, lightly touching her nether lips. The man outlined her labia gently, using long, wet strokes. He was rewarded with a passionate moan. Then, he made his tongue stiff, the sides of it curling upwards, and it became as if an arrow, and he trailed the tip of it downwards from the top folds of her womanhood, through the satin wetness of the bunches of skin there, effectively parting it, ending at her entrance.

Charlotte shivered at this, glad she had the wall to brace herself against. "Mmmmm," she murmured as she let her head rest back against the wall and closed her eyes.

Once inside her velvety, now spread lips, he dragged the flat of his tongue slowly against her swollen clitoris, pressing hard into it. Then he repeated that action, and the slowness of it— the calculating, manipulative, slow patience— made Charlotte feel as if her head were going to explode. She released the deep, calming breath that her lover had caused her to hold so steadily within her gut.

William could tell that he was unhinging the attractive widow. He changed tactics and began to lap quickly at the hardened nub, lapping as if a thirsty mutt drinking water. Tavington felt her body jerk and spasm with shock each time his tongue touched her womanly pearl.

Still standing on one leg, Charlotte was sure that her knee would give way, but the colonel's strong hands gripping her hips, nearly to the point of bruising them, held her firmly in place. She tightened her right leg which still rested over his left shoulder, pushing his torso firmly against her legs, and making sure she kept his mouth deeply buried in her sex. The woman moved her leg slightly, her heel massaging the officer's back, but that was a poor return for the sheer oral pleasure he was giving her at the moment. She resolved to make it up to the man later.

Lost to her lover's ministrations and panting hard, Mrs. Selton's right hand pushed the fair portion it held of her skirt into her left fist. Her right hand now free of her skirt, she raised her right arm to her forehead, resting it there as if she had given up, or if she was going to faint—she didn't know which. Even in the cool March night air, her face broke out in perspiration as her head lay against the wall, eyes closed, in some dreamy state as she enjoyed the attention of her redcoat lover.

Somehow, she found the strength to lift her head and look down at William as he pleasured her. Charlotte moved her right hand downwards, her fingers finding his head. She caressed his hair, smoothing it back as he licked untiringly between her feminine folds. Her own fingers delved with curiosity into her quim, always excited to feel his tongue moving as it swirled around her core. And there, laying her index finger next to that fleshy knot of nerves is where his tongue licked her finger tip teasingly as it circled.

She groaned and pulled her hand away, resting it on over her chest as it heaved up and down with her erratic breath. "Oh, William! You're a Roman God!" The words spilled out quickly and raggedly.

William, spurred on by the compliment, increased his pace from slow lazy circles, to tonguing her upwards again, flicking against the tiny, stiff knot of nerves. He kept on with that motion steadily for another moment, building the woman up, knowing she could not take much more.

Charlotte's clit was now so sensitive that she had to have release soon. "Oh, yes, William, yes!" she coaxed him on in her best whisper, wanting him to hurry her to an orgasm, yet wanting the buildup to last forever. She knew her clitoris wouldn't last that long for it was close to being too sensitive as to enjoy the feeling. Yet the colonel was steadfast, keeping to the same rhythm constantly. This served to tease the girl into a frenzy. Her blood was on fire, coursing through her veins, priming her body for that good reward of a feeling that lingered just a moment away.

Soon, with that last full moment of steady licking and lapping and circling of William's tongue, Charlotte Selton came apart, exploding and falling over a precipice into supreme satisfaction.

"Yes! YES! William!" she murmured in satiation as her body shook and rippled. Feeling the urge to scream as the feeling peaked, she threw her right arm over her mouth, muffling her grateful moans.

A pleased William Tavington smiled and chuckled low, full of himself and feeling particularly manly at having sated the lusty widow. The colonel wiped his face discreetly on one of her petticoats. He got back to his feet, now standing over the Carolina beauty, finding her eyes dazed and her cheeks flushed.

She parted her lips, an intoxicated smile on them, and slid her arms around Tavington's neck. Charlotte pulled his body to hers, with him slipping his arms around her waist. Their lips met in a soft kiss that soon deepened. Their tongues twisted and twirled slowly, a relaxed kiss that could last all evening. She tasted the tang of her own womanly saltiness still in his mouth.

Soon, Mrs. Selton's arms left William's shoulders, her hands slinking down over his jacket, finding his placket, the top buttons still undone from moments earlier. The lady finished the job quickly, undoing the rest of the buttons then nudging his breeches down his hips, freeing his thick column of flesh, still rock hard and aching for her. She palmed his erection again, which twitched under her touch.

William's hands reached down and under the woman's skirts, still rumpled and stiff, crushed against her thighs. He first palmed both smooth, half moons of her rear, appreciating it for a moment, then slid his hands down to where her ass met her thighs. With superior strength, he lifted her, bracing her body against the brick.

The woman's lips left his as she put her arms about his shoulder and lifted her legs. She bent her knees then wrapped her legs about the colonel's torso, where she crossed her ankles behind his back. Her legs squeezed his body, holding it tightly between them as he lifted her a bit more.

Charlotte gasped as she felt the tip of his member nudging at her entrance. He pressed his hardness into her velvety depths, nice and slow, nestling himself in when he reached the back of her. William rested there a moment, not moving. The couple held each other tightly, both panting as if it was such a relief to have his cock buried to the hilt in her wetness.

Resting another moment, relishing the feeling, his head dropped and he breathed against her neck. "Jesus, Charlotte!"

Mrs. Selton kissed his neck and then put her lips to his ear. She whispered, "Fuck me hard, William."

"Certainly," he murmured against her skin. With that, he reared back, pulling his rock hard manhood to within an inch of coming free of her, then he launched forward, as if letting something loose from a catapult, impaling her with a deep and savage stab that stole her breath away.

"Oomph," she grunted as she tightened her arms about his strong shoulders.

"Oh yes! Please! Like that!" she coaxed. "Hard!"

He snapped his hips hard against her bottom again. "Yes!" he responded. "So hard!"

His pelvis bucked against hers, which undulated in time to the rhythm he set. The officer hammered and drilled his firmness deep into her, battering her moist, pink tissue to the point of knowing she would be sore in the morning.

After moments of the brutal cadence, Tavington's legs were starting to burn from the combined efforts of holding the woman up and thrusting deeply. But even with that, the carnal pleasure building at the base of his prick and deep in his pelvis outweighted the protesting of his muscular limbs.

"Oh, Christ!" he hissed. "I'm so close!"

At the same time, Charlotte felt a quick curl of tingling that overtook her out of the blue. It was as if his words unleashed the feeling.

"Yes! William!" she purred. "Yes!"

Feeling her body go rigid and her breathing become ragged, he coaxed her on. "That's it, my dear. Come Charlotte! Come now!"

The dam burst inside her and another powerful orgasm enveloped her being. "Oh God, William!" she gasped, "It's so good!"

Tavington felt the tissue in her vagina contracting strongly, rhythmically about his cock, bringing him to immediate completion.

"Christ!...mmmmm….ah!" he swore as his orgasm unfurled through his body. He spasmed hard and shot his hot stream deep into her cave. Her moist insides continued to ripple around his penis, prolonging his pleasure.

"That's it, Charlotte," he groaned. "Milk it! Squeeze it dry!"

After another moment, when all the muscles and tissues had stopped rioting within their bodies, they caught their breath and shared a light kiss. The woman unwound her legs from her redcoat colonel. He held her securely until she had good footing.

"I told you that we wouldn't get caught," he smirked quietly as he released his hold on her.

"You still intend to have me in your bed later?" she asked coyly as she pushed her skirts down.

"Yes," answered Colonel Tavington as he tugged his trouser up and fastened them back. Charlotte smoothed her hair and took his arm.

"We should head back," she said. "I could use some punch…or champagne."

/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/

It was sometime after Midnight when the last guests finally left. Captain Bordon bid goodnight to his subalterns, and hesitated for a moment before he started the walk back to his room, knowing full well he might stumble or pass out on the way into the house. The officer was good and drunk, and had managed to not look too much so during the last part of the evening, when he had switched up from socially drinking to throwing the spirits back quickly for the purpose of getting soused.

The officer stood still, trying to corral the drunkenness enough to leave. As he did, he occupied himself by staring bleary eyed about the now sparsely populated ballroom. He saw the servants cleaning up. He watched as Mrs. Selton left, trying to look discreet as if going to her own room, but fooling no one. He saw his superior bid goodnight then leave shortly after the pretty widow with the intent of spiriting her away to his quarters.

Then his eyes fell on Miss Burwell, now without her friends, the Days, who had left moments ago. The girl was still a vision of loveliness as she spoke with Mrs. Leyanova. It was then that the officer chose to leave, while the young hostess was giving final instructions to the head of the house staff.

He walked slowly past the servants and the girl, and nodded as he told them goodnight. Once outside, the cold air hit him, making him bristle for his skin was cool but his inside flowed with the warmth of alcohol. The captain hoped that the brisk night air would not sober him up as he was enjoying the high feeling of being drunk, even though he knew he would pay for it in the morning.

The officer paused just outside the house, planting himself against the wall. Hugh Bordon rested there, his head spinning. He could not walk a step further until the sensation stopped. The British captain stayed still and quiet, resting at the wall, until he could feel sure enough to walk the rest of the way to his quarters.

In the ballroom, Betsy Burwell looked over the room, now in disarray after a successful party, and sighed. She bid good evening to the servants, knowing that with a couple of hours, they would have the room back to normal. And within a few more hours, they would be serving a normal breakfast on another normal morning within the room.

Betsy headed across the breezeway, stopping when she noticed one of the lanterns still burning on the grass. The young lady stepped down, making her way the few feet to the lantern, which she quickly extinguished.

On her way to the back door, her arm was grabbed, stopping her in her tracks. Startled by the action, she gasped. The grasp was strangely familiar to her, and the strong hand turned loose of her arm just as quickly.

She had been pulled into a shadow that fell neatly onto the back part of the main house. Her eyes, already adjusted to the dark that had enveloped the green between the buildings, recognized quickly the stocky figure of Captain Bordon. Betsy was relieved to see that it was him there and not some unknown assailant manhandling her person.

The officer then addressed her, his familiar, deep voice slurring his way through the words. "And where are you off to, Miss Burwell?"


	28. Chapter 27: A Chance Opportunity

**Note from author: Hi all. I'm in Charleston, South Carolina right now posting this story. It is late and I'm tired from today, so there are probably a few mistakes in this. I hate to make you guys wait, as you always end up doing so for me as I can't post timely (sorry...life...kid...job...etc). And again, thanks for your patience!** **I edited quickly tonight and will do so again in the morning, so sorry in advance for errors. Hope you are enjoying so far. Take care.**

**JScorpio**

Chapter 27: A Chance Opportunity

"To my room," Betsy answered softly. The sharp aroma of whiskey and the sweetness of wine clung thickly to Captain Bordon. For a fleeting moment, Betsy felt sick. The smell of the alcohol made her recall that night months ago in which she became soused and was so very ill the next morning. Since then, she barely touched the drink except for a sip here and there at some special occasion.

Although Miss Burwell trusted this particular redcoat officer and knew him better than any of the others, she was suddenly uneasy. The girl was now talking with a man who was extremely drunk, instead of the usual diplomatic and kind officer that she conversed and acted easily with every day.

"I was dismissed from my hostess duties," she informed, nervously. "Most of the guests have gone." She drew in a breath as she thought, then rolled her eyes as she added, "Except for the one that Colonel Tavington is entertaining personally."

"In his quarters, of course," Bordon smirked.

"I'm sure," Betsy replied, smiling a bit, easing again at the mutual joking about the affair between the colonel and the widow Selton. "They did it in the garden earlier this evening."

The captain looked down at the girl with a surprised and disdainful look. "And how would you know that?!"

"Hannah and I stumbled upon them."

"The urge must have consumed them," he commented snidely.

The young woman said nothing back, thinking it best to stop the inappropriate subject matter of the conversation. Better yet, she thought, to just stop conversing with someone so absolutely inebriated. So she bobbed a fast curtsy. "Goodnight, Captain."

She turned to go and was stopped when the British officer grabbed hold of her arm again. "Don't go away."

Betsy stared quizzically up at the drunken man, who turned loose of her instantly. "Why?" she asked.

"I'd like to converse with you," he admitted, his words slipping about as if skating on ice.

The comment hit a note of humor with the young lady. She resisted the urge to laugh as she watched him swaying gently back and forth with the effects of the spirits working full speed in his system. _How can someone so crocked expect to carry on a coherent conversation, she asked herself._ The answer, she grinned silently, was within the question she had just posed in her mind. _Of course! Drunken persons can jump over the moon if they so wish._

"In your condition?" she queried, a spiteful smile playing at her mouth.

The redcoat officer hung his head, as if in shame. "Oh. You noticed."

Betsy laughed aloud. "Yes. I noticed." She looked up at the sky as she attempted to rein in her giggles. The young lady reconsidered leaving in favor of the sport of trying to talk some sense into the inebriated captain. "And how do you expect to hold a conversation when you can barely stand?"

The dragoon second in command suddenly looked hurt and offended. "Well, I am holding this building up, aren't I?"

She chuckled and replied, "No. I believe _it_ is holding _you up_, sir."

"You may be right," he admitted. "And when I come away from it, I shall surely fall."

"We can't have that, can we?" teased the Burwell girl with a twinkle in her eyes. "Would you like me to help you to your room?"

"I was afraid you'd never ask," Bordon responded immediately, relief on his face. "Yes, please."

He held his arm out to her. Miss Burwell put her hand in the crook of his elbow and eased him away from the brick wall. The officer, over a half a foot taller than the girl, put his arm around her shoulders. She slipped her arm about his waist to steady him and gripped the hand laying on her shoulder in hers. They were off, taking small, careful steps up into the house. Once in the house, the two moved slowly in the first floor hallway, past the darkened rooms and to the grand stairway.

Upon the stairs to the second floor, the captain steadied himself with one hand on the banister and the other arm still about Miss Burwell's shoulders. At the second story landing, they made a small turn and headed toward the bedroom wing. She was relieved to have him so close to his quarters, fearing the whole time that he might pass out as they walked and become a dead weight upon her.

As they passed Colonel Tavington's bedroom, they could hear muffled cries filtering through the locked door. "Oh, William," Mrs. Selton moaned to the accompaniment of the legion commander's grunts of effort.

"My, aren't they having a jolly time," Captain Bordon snickered. Betsy said nothing, grinning at his wry and drunken comment.

After a few more careful steps, they found themselves outside of the officer's bedchamber. They entered, and Betsy immediately closed the door quietly behind them lest Bordon make anymore silly comments that may be overheard. She was also mindful of being caught in his room so late at night.

Hugh Bordon stumbled to his bureau where a bottle of whiskey and clean glass stood amongst his hair brush, pomade jar, and other grooming supplies. Betsy watched him curiously as he fumbled about in the dark. The man picked up the bottle, uncorking it with a pop after an uncoordinated effort.

Her mouth fell open and she rushed to him, nearly knocking him over. The officer grabbed the edge of the dresser to help himself stand.

"I don't think you need any more to drink tonight, sir," she advised as she took the bottle away from him. The young lady stepped over to the window, readying to pour the stuff out onto the ground two stories below.

She gasped as the captain pulled her hard away from the window and jerked the spirits from her hands. He glared at her, nearly scaring the poor girl to death. "I refuse to let you pour a perfectly good, whole, innocent bottle of whiskey out the window."

Betsy shivered, knowing she had overstepped her bounds. As she watched the dragoon leader replace the bottle on his nightstand, she quickly decided not to reason with a drunk—especially an inebriated enemy officer who was also her captor. The girl assumed wisely that it was time to go.

"I am sorry, sir," she apologized as she stepped slowly back toward the door. "I was worried. You can barely stand."

There was an awkward silence between them. The girl flashed a quick, nervous smile. "I should go."

Betsy turned and headed to the doorway. She was startled to find Captain Bordon meeting her there. The stocky officer, though impaired by the spirits, found a jut of speed and used it to hurl himself toward the way out.

She stared wide eyed at the man as he blocked her way. She thought it best for herself just to leave and let him sleep it off. Yet he refused to let her do so.

"Miss Burwell," he began, making his best effort not to slur, keeping his words measured and slow, "You look exceptionally beautiful tonight."

Stunned, she hesitated, then felt her cheeks becoming hot and flushed. "Thank you," she answered nervously. She pressed herself back against the door as the tall officer leaned over her.

The girl felt trapped and vulnerable, and though scared, she also felt strangely exhilarated.

"I think you look pretty every day," he confessed, his words a bit askew, but comprehensible.

The young lady nodded her head, still blushing furiously. She was glad he couldn't see the ruby red of her cheeks. "Well...I should-"

"Do you know what I want more than anything?" he asked, putting his hand over the door knob. He was determined that she was going to stay a bit longer to hear out his drunken proclamations and deepest secrets.

"What?" she asked. In a flash, it was a query she instantly regretted making of his question, thinking it better not to know, given the premature fumblings of their recent past.

"To kiss you."

Betsy sighed nervously. "That wouldn't be proper with you in your state."

"I know, but I won't remember it in the morning," he smirked, a lopsided grin curling up one side of his mouth.

"Lack of memory doesn't make it proper either." Miss Burwell commented. She knew that they shouldn't kiss, but her insides started to flutter, making her inexplicably welcome the nerves and fear. Months ago, she rebuffed his impromptu advance, then later wished she hadn't. The girl had confessed to Hannah that she thought he was handsome, and she had grown to trust him and care for him. Indeed, this enemy officer was the closest man to her at this point in her life. Her brother was dead; her father was gone commanding continental troops, her fiance was what seemed like a million miles away wreaking havoc in the backwoods against the British and Indians. Who else was there?

She looked up and suddenly realized how close the handsome, yet drunken officer was, hovering over her, making her feel tiny...and bothered. His eyes sparkled in the darkness with a mischievous glow.

"Miss Burwell, that bed gets terribly lonely sometimes," he divulged, pointing toward it with one arm as the other hand was planted firmly on the door above the girl's head.

"But-" she stammered, aghast and not sure what to say. She shouldn't have been so shocked over how forward the officer was being. After all, he was three sheets to the wind. Betsy never dreamed that she would ever hear those words come out of Captain Hugh Bordon's mouth.

"Perhaps you'd consider warming it tonight?" he asked unabashed and equally unashamed, thanks to the alcohol and thanks to his libido.

"No," she refused flatly. But at that point, she felt a strange warmth coming over her, settling in her gut. As well, she felt a queer twitch between her legs that threatened to spirit her breath away. She longed to tell him yes, but the properness of being a young society lady dictated that she had to demur.

"And what if I won't take 'no' for an answer," he joked, only thinly veiling a threat to take her into his bed.

"Then I will scream," she choked out in barely a whisper, overcome with arousal and conflicted feelings.

"You won't scream if I beg, will you?" With that, Bordon lumbered his stocky, drunken body away from the door a bit and tried to kneel before the girl.

"NO!" Betsy hissed, reaching out with both her arms, grabbing his to prevent him from the action. "Please don't! I'll never be able to get you back up again!"

The officer then lost his balance and fell against the door, only his arms catching him. This trapped Betsy between his sturdy body and the wood of the door. Caged in, she could do nothing but look up at him while he stared down at her.

Before she knew it, his head had dipped and his face was so near hers. The strong aroma of whiskey coupled with the scent of his apple pomade seemed to make him even more manly, and she had no explanation for why she suddenly liked him so close to her; trapping her.

Even though so thoroughly inebriated, he kissed her gently, and she did not shy away. She felt a sort of relief wash over her at this first kiss, which really wasn't their first shared kiss. The girl had no memory of the time months ago when he had first kissed her for she was too drunk.

It was bliss to her to feel a man's lips on hers. He kissed her softly, and her lips followed and mirrored his. She didn't know what to do but only knew that she didn't want it to end.

Her eyes closed, Betsy felt weak, as if her legs would give out. His arms were busy holding himself up against the door, caging her there. Miss Burwell's hung at her side, partly because she wasn't sure what to do with them, even though she has seen her parent kiss and assumed it was natural to put your arms about one's partner. The other part of her was afraid to slip her arms around the captain.

The officer ended the innocent kiss, pulling away from her first. Betsy felt intoxicated now herself, wanting another kiss from the redcoat and more of something she couldn't quite describe.

"You can scream now," joked Bordon.

She opened her eyes which gleamed in amazement as she stared up at him. The young lady couldn't talk, the ability at any speech having left her instantly. All she could do was shake her head 'no' mutely.

At the moment, she wanted whatever he would give her. Her head was swimming and her feelings were warring within herself. She knew she shouldn't be doing this—she had a fiance. And this man was the enemy, helping to keep her imprisoned_. Yet, he is drunk, she thought. What harm is there? He will never remember anything in the morning._

Bordon leaned down again and trailed his lips along the girl's neck. It sent sparks shooting through her body, and left her feeling as though she might swoon. She closed her eyes when she felt him softly, sweetly, kiss the shell of her ear. Betsy had no idea how hard she was breathing—panting—as if she had just run a race.

He whispered seductively in her ear. "Perhaps you would consider parting with your innocence tonight?"

Betsy was overcome, feeling panic yet feeling the pull of sweet seduction. The girl brushed a light kiss across his lips instead of answering, still unable to find her voice.

"I see you every day," Bordon murmured, "and I have to be a proper gentleman as an officer and cannot say some things. But I am just drunk enough now to be able to tell you what I _really_ want."

"Perhaps you shouldn't tell me," she whispered. Barely enough of her voice had returned even for those few words.

"Do you trust me?" he asked, a manly sort of innocence crossing his face; a question in his eye.

Emotions still raged and careened within her. As a proper young lady, she should refuse without hesitation. But as a frightened young girl, whom Colonel Tavington had already threatened—no, promised—to steal her virtue himself, by force, she considered the captain's proposal. The age old game of 'the-lesser-of-two-evils' pulled hard on her. George was not there to claim her as his. If a dragoon was going to have her virtue, she now had the chance to choose by who and when, giving her some sort of control. She admitted to herself that the satisfaction of knowing that Colonel Tavington, who was bound and determined to take it by force, would NOT get it. She would give it to someone else of her choice. There. The deed would be done and settled.

"Yes. Of course I do," she said, her voice low with uncertainty bleeding though it.

"Enough to let me make love to you?" he asked, gazing down at her, obliterated by alcohol yet wondrously in control of himself for the moment.

Betsy was overtaken by everything. Captain Bordon's cocksuredness. His masculinity. His scent. His room. The darkness. The nearness of him. Her own ability to give herself up to him. The ease and relief she suddenly felt in letting go of her innocence. Her head was swirling, and she didn't know whether to faint or run.

After a minute of being pummeled by emotion, she held her hand out to him. It was an incredulous move to both of them and it was inexplicable to herself as to what made her do it. Bordon said nothing as he took the small hand proffered him and guided her to the side of his bed. The officer hesitated there a moment, then put his arms around her waist and drew her willing body to him. She made no fight of it, letting her arms snake upwards to rest upon his broad shoulders.

His mouth met hers with commanding ferocity, directing her, possessing her from that point. Yet, his lips were gentle, reminding her of his kindness. Hugh deepened the kiss and moved with a slowed, lazy freedom that teased her and left her with a longing in her heart and an ache between her legs.

After that moment of frenzied kisses mixed with painstakingly slow ones, Captain Bordon pulled the bedspread back and sat on his bed. He reclined backwards and pulled the girl down onto the sheets with him. She complied, finding a place to lay next to him as he moved his body over. Both of them rolled on to their sides to face each other where they entwined their arms, holding each other close. They kissed again, and as they did, his hand slipped down her leg, finding the bottom of her skirt. He pushed the dress slowly up her leg, hearing her breath hitch in her throat as he did.

Instead of giving her any time to think about what was about to happen, he pushed her onto her back as he shifted his body up. He kneed her legs apart then climbed in between them and settled there.

An instant of panic overtook Betsy. "I...I...don't know what to do," she confessed, the uncertainty making her voice quiver.

"You_ have_ read Fanny Hill," he reminded in all seriousness.

"Yes, and that book keeps coming back to haunt me," she cried.

"I told you it was rubbish," he said with a light chuckle. He put his lips to her ear and whispered sweetly, "I will guide you."

As he continued to ease her dress up over her thighs, the girl stirred again, fear on her face. "How am I to explain on my wedding night to Colonel Clark why I am not a virgin?"

"I don't know," answered Bordon. After a moment, he put his lips to her neck and began to kiss her softly. He murmured against her skin. "We will come up with something." The drunken officer was more intent on the matter at hand.

As Betsy worried, the Captain pushed himself up to kneeling between her legs. With much effort, he took off his jacket and untied his cravat, which he dropped onto the floor. Still dressed in his shirt, pants, and vest, he unbuttoned his collar then lowered his body back onto the girl.

"I'm sorry that we are both still dressed," he slurred an apology, "but I'm a bit too drunk to attempt undressing you, or me, any further." The man reached over to grab the bottle of whiskey from his nightstand. He took a swig, and Betsy closed her eyes at the stinging smell of it.

"I don't think you need another drink, captain," she whispered.

"Oh, this isn't alcohol, missy, it is liquid courage," he chuckled as he took a swig.

Miss Burwell took the bottle from his hand and corked it. "I don't think you need any more courage tonight, either," she chuckled as she returned the container to the bedside table. "You are quite bold in your words and deeds, I assure you."

"Why don't you feel just how bold I am," he teased low against her ear. "Touch me."

As he kissed her neck, he gently took her hand and put it on his rock hard phallus. With his hand wrapped over hers, he guided her fist up and down the length, and groaned at the feeling of it.

Betsy was entirely stunned at the events unfolding so quickly. First, she was still amazed at her own action in agreeing to go to bed with Captain Bordon. And secondly, here she was, in his quarters in his bed on her back with her skirt up to her hips with a British officer between her spread-eagled legs. Unbelievable! And now, she was touching a man there...THERE! On his manhood, hard and between his legs, and he was enjoying it. The girl was fascinated, keeping his stiffened erection gently in her grasp, alternating running her fingers then her fist up and down it, amazed at how it felt at the initial introduction to the male anatomy.

"All of THAT fits inside a woman?" she asked simply, incredulously.

He looked down at her, pure passion on his face and in his voice. His blue eyes were half shut, not only with drunkenness, but with lust. "I've found the female anatomy to be very accommodating."

"Oh," Betsy answered, half worried, half excited.

Bordon removed her hand, then kissed it as a gentleman would. "Relax. The act will be easier if you do." Miss Burwell nodded as she gulped in fright.

The girl she snapped her eyes shut and drew in an edgy breath as she felt his hand rummaging around between the both of them, between both pairs of legs. She wondered what he was doing, and stiffened when she felt the back of his hand brush against her untouched womanhood-something her own hand had hardly touched in her fifteen and a half years of life.

Hugh Bordon took his hardened shaft in hand and positioned it at the opening of the girl's virginal quim. He felt her warm slickness on the tip of his prick as he rubbed it gently at the hole. Betsy jumped at feeling a man's erection for the very first time against her, ready to go inside her.

The excitement and remorse of the feeling, at the thought of losing her virginity just a heartbeat away, brought tears to her eyes, which she blinked back. She had been anxious to know what it was like to be bedded by a man, but she was sad that this wasn't the "proper" way: that this wasn't her husband, whom she was sure she would love, on her wedding night, and instead was with a drunken enemy officer.

And slowly, gently, cautiously, Captain Hugh Bordon of His Majesty's Green Dragoons of the British Legion, slid his hardened cock inside this willing, but scared rebel prisoner. The wetness helped, as did his cautionary slowness. When he could go no further, he let out a groan of relief and rested in her virgin velvet. It was a place he could have stayed in forever; his prick surrounded and wrapped in her innocence. His head and body may have been numbed by the alcohol, but his cock, hard as stone, was awash in every sensation, feeling it all.

Miss Burwell's eyes rounded as she yelped aloud. "Oh no! We can't! It hurts!" she cried. The girl felt as if her whole body, not just her vagina, was being invaded. The stretching was horrid, taking her breath away. As she struggled to breathe,her mind screamed, wondering just how this act was supposed to be so pleasurable to women. Her walls inside her were throbbing and burning, and all she wanted was for him to remove his stiffness from her.

Clapping his hand over her mouth, he looked sympathetic to her pain. He could see the tears in her eyes as she winced behind his hand. "You must be quiet," he beseeched her in a whisper."You don't want anyone to know you are in my quarters, do you?"

She nodded her head "no". As he took his hand away, she sniffled. He did not pull himself from her, knowing that the longer he left himself inside her, still and not moving an inch, that she would stretch to fit him. But not too much, he hoped, for he did so enjoy her virgin tightness around him.

"It only hurts at first," he murmured, brushing a gentle kiss of consolation across her lips. "Your body will get used to it."

After a moment of lingering still inside her virgin walls, he pulled himself out slowly, then pressed back in equally as slow. Although inebriated, he had enough control to remember to go easy on the innocent lass. He kept on with his cautious and gentle strokes, of which made Betsy feel as if her pelvis was near to exploding with the fullness of him tucked in her small core. She began to squirm beneath him, making a feeble attempt to push him off of her.

"Lie still," he scolded in a low voice.

"This is a mistake," she whispered, near tears. "We should stop."

"It hurts because it is your first time," he tried to reason as he pinned her down to stop her jostling about. "Trust me. It will pass."

She nodded holding her tears back, trying to be brave. She would let him finish and all this business would be done.

After two more gentle slides into her, he could tell that he had not broken her hymen yet. He had seen no blood on his shaft. Bordon also felt that he wasn't penetrating her that deeply, and that her virtuous shield was still intact, preventing the deepness.

"I'm sorry, lass," his apology sounded heartfelt, yet slurred and bobbled, "but I'm going to have to take a couple of hard jabs within you to break your maidenhead. It should be more comfortable to you once that is done."

Again, she said nothing, only nodding her head that she understood. The girl closed her eyes and tried to prepare herself for a hard shove from something that felt way too large to be lodged within her anyway.

The captain pulled his cock out to where only the head lay shallow just inside her entrance. He snapped his hips forward sharply, his pelvis meeting hers. Quickly he pulled out and did the same thing again.

This time, Betsy winced aloud as she felt a stinging within her, and then a burning that spread through her virgin walls and beyond, into her pelvis. When she breathed again, after holding a long breath, she noticed that his manhood felt deeper within her. After an instant, the discomfort wasn't as great as it was before. The young lady closed her eyes and sighed in relief. She smiled in the darkness, relieved for the moment to have this over with.

"My God, you are so tight," he murmured as he lobbed his stiffness into the girl, loving how snug of a fit he was inside her. Soon, he slowed again, stroking long and lazily within her.

Suddenly, the officer's chorus of grunts and groans of pleasure and effort ceased as did his fucking. Then, his stocky and well muscled body collapsed on top of hers, pinning her squarely beneath his dead weight.

"Captain?" she whispered in his ear as she put her hands on his shoulders. "Captain?"

She nudged him again, wanting an answer as to why his actions, which were just starting to feel good to her, had stopped.

"RRrrrrrr. Rrrrrr. Mmmmmm." His body shook ever so slightly against hers.

Then Betsy's eyes widened. He was snoring! The redcoat had passed out stone cold atop the girl after too much alcohol.

She finally pushed his drunken, heavy body off of her and to the side of the bed. She stared at him for a moment. _How could he do this to me, she asked herself._

She got out of bed, pushing her skirt back down as she did. Her eyes adjusted to the dark, Betsy looked down and glimpsed the man's breeches still open, clearly noticing the outline of the captain's now flaccid penis lying limply on his thigh.

Embarrassed, she quickly looked away, knowing it was immoral of her to stare at it! Sure that she was flushing crimson in the darkness though no one was around to see her. The girl clamped her eyes shut as she reached down. Her hand caught the edge of a sheet, thankful that she didn't have to touch his manhood again, which would cause her more shame in her own mind. She pulled the cover over the unconscious redcoat officer, giving him some modesty, then tiptoed to the door. Betsy looked back at him, wondering what it would have been like for the act to have finished properly.

Opening the door, she slipped through it and padded quietly down the darkened hallway and slid silently into her own room, where she pressed the door shut delicately so as not to make a sound. Not bothering to light a candle, she took the beautiful satin dress off, the skirt of which was now so hopelessly crumpled and crushed with wrinkles that she hoped she wouldn't have to explain to Mrs. Leyanova how they got there. The girl folded the frock over neatly and laid it on the chair. Her petticoats followed suit. And daring not wake anyone, she reached backward and navigated the lacings of her corset and unloosened them enough to be able to wiggle out of the wretched thing, which she dropped on the floor and left in place where it fell.

Betsy made her way to her dresser, where she poured some hours-old water into the basin. She wet the linen and squeezed out the excess, then pulled her shift up her legs with her other hand. The girl winced as she placed the cold rag against the hot skin between her legs, which was now throbbing and burning. She washed herself thoroughly there, wanting to rid her body of all traces of the guilty act she was just involved in.

On this side of the house, the moonlight seemed to pour into the room. It was enough for her to see the water in the basin. As she swirled the rag in the porcelain bowl, she watched as the remnants of her virtue—her virgin blood—swirled in thin strings about the water then dissolved. She stared at the water, which was a pale pink tinge now, thinking about how that was the last of her innocence. It was gone, and now she was a woman. What she had just done, the realization of it, hit her squarely in the face.

But Betsy didn't feel giddy and happy as a young woman who just lost her virginity should. Instead, she was deeply conflicted, and the emotions at battle within her only served to make things worse. The girl tried to quiet her mind, not wanting to think about it at all. She stepped to the window and pulled the curtains shut, then laid down. Sliding into her own bed now being under the covers, which she pulled up high around her chin, was a relief. The girl longed for the peace that sleep would bring.

But, the cacophony in her mind played on, not allowing her rest.

Miss Burwell felt guilty and shameful, so much so that it twisted her stomach into what she thought for sure was a knot. She had just given her virginity away to a drunken British officer, though a well meaning one. _Father has me betrothed to another man, her thoughts raged. How am I supposed to explain this to George? And when? On our wedding night?_!

Then she turned on herself, having to admit some secret feelings again that she would rather not have. That she liked and trusted Captain Bordon; that she thought he was handsome. And less than an hour ago, she had given herself to him freely. Though she admitted her own feelings, she consoled herself as well. _The captain was so soused that he won't remember it, she comforted herself. So, I won't have all the gossip to worry about and trying to explain myself._ But that was the least of her concern at the moment.

With her virginity gone now, she wouldn't have to worry about Colonel Tavington and his threat to "steal her virtue and flaunt it". _One cannot take what is already gone, she mused_. For now, this fact was still only another small consolation.

And then, the triplets of torture: doubt, regret and remorse took their turn at keeping the girl awake and stirred up to near illness. _Maybe I shouldn't have given it to Captain Bordon. Maybe I should I should have let things unfold as deemed by destiny, instead of altering it myself. If Colonel Tavington were to have stolen my virginity by force, I would have a better, more viable excuse to give my fiance. After all, it would be rape, and surely George would understand that. He would probably have pity for me. Instead, I'm left with telling him that I gave it up to a British officer—a trusted and compassionate one even though an adversary— just so that another enemy officer could not claim my virginity as his prize to boast of and hold over Papa and George's head? __Dear God, how could I have let this happen?_

Betsy continued to castigate herself, now making her head ache and throb. _Oh, Lord, I wish it could have happened with a husband, or at least a man I love. I wish it could have been loving and whole and romantic. _

A silly stab of anger and blame pushed its way into the girl's mind, as well._ Captain Bordon __could have at least had the courtesy to stay coherent during the experience and finish the damned thing, she lamented. _

_Oh woe, what have I done, she asked herself_.

Adrift and drowning in a sea of her own confusion, she turned over and buried her face in her pillow, and wept terribly, eventually crying herself to sleep.


	29. Chapter 28: One Hell Of A Hangover

Chapter 28: One Hell Of a Hangover

"My God, Mrs. Selton, you're so good at that," Colonel Tavington muttered dreamily, his eyes closed. He didn't bother lifting his head from the pillow to watch the woman's head bobbing up and down in his lap. Feeling her mouth teasing him without him perusing her actions was driving him to desire fast enough.

The beautiful widow moved her mouth up and down the length of his stiffened manhood, blessing it with light kisses, then dragging her luscious lips, wet and inviting, at a lazy pace up and down the shaft. As Charlotte slowly teased him, she could feel herself getting moist with that lovely twitching of desire in her pussy that made her feel she would have to have him inside her soon—VERY soon.

She would stop once in awhile to wrap her lips around the hardened shaft, eliciting groans of appreciation and want from the man. When she did, her hand would caress his testicles, rolling them gently in her fingers, increasing the man's tension and desire. Then she would tease him further, gliding her fingertips up and down his hardness, mimicking her tongue's actions.

At the tip of his cock, her tongue snaked out from between her lips and licked the head, now purple and bulging with desire. She licked it as if it were a piece of sweet candy that she enjoyed, her fist gripping his manhood, sliding up and down the shaft all the while.

After licking the head until the colonel was squirming, she took the swollen, violet crown into her mouth, sucking and tonguing it gently, refusing to take any more of his long manhood past her soft lips, preferring instead to build her lover's hunger until his pleading was heard. And Charlotte was soon rewarded after only two minutes of that exquisite torture, knowing she had brought the corona near to the point of becoming oversensitive.

"Swallow it now, Charlotte." His voice was raspy and low, partly instructing her yet partly begging her out of his greedy need.

The woman smiled, letting her lips slide sensuously over the flare of the crown slowly, looking him in the eyes as she did. Her blue eyes had a look of playful naughtiness in them as she met his azure eyes, smoldering now. She took him deep into her mouth, letting his cock slide slowly—painfully slow—into her throat. Mrs. Selton relaxed her muscles as much as she could so as not to gag on him, for she knew him well enough after all these months, that he wanted to feel his manhood as deep in her throat as possible.

When her lips finally reached the base of his prick, where his thick dark curls were full of his manly scent, William groaned in relief. She held him there, deep in her throat, warm and wet, for a moment, driving the officer even more insane with desire.

"Christ, Charlotte!" he swore, "Move, damn it!"

She chuckled at her lover's frustrated cries, knowing what he wanted. The lady began to move her mouth up and down the length of his shaft, swallowing him completely to the base, holding him deeply in her throat, then letting it slide up to the point that he tip nearly breeched the threshold of her lips stopping at the last moment. And after sliding up and down his shaft a few times in this way, she stopped to suck and pull on him.

Charlotte had repositioned herself when she had begun fellatio, moving from lying in his arms. She was now opposite him, lying on her side, her head and arms lazing in his lap and thighs. Her legs were bent at the knee, relaxed on the pillows near Tavington's head. This made it easy for William as he crammed his left hand into her mussed up golden locks, holding her head there, not wanting her to stop with her actions. The officer's right hand found its way to between her legs, which she willingly opened for him. Nestled now in her wet quim, he lazily pushed two long fingers up inside her vagina, then proceeded to shoving hard in and out, nearly matching the rhythm of her mouth on his cock. He heard her muffled grunt of pleasure against his skin, her mouth still full of his hardened member. Feeling her velvety walls clinch around his digits, he plied them there, in and out; in and out.

"Deeper! Take it deep!" the officer said lustily. And Charlotte once again took him as deep into her throat as she could, holding him there after moving in a hesitating manner up and down, again following the length of him. And after another torturous moment of this her urged her on. "Faster my dear."

As she did, and the pleasure tightened in his pelvis, he closed his eyes and let out a deep breath. _God damn, he thought, she is better at this than any whore. But there again, she was a wife for years, and has been a hungry widow starved for intimacy just as long. _

And for all the pleasure that Charlotte was giving her colonel the return was the spicy arousal burning and building in her own core, ready to flow out to the rest of her body. She moved her hips in time with Tavington's rhythm. He punched his fingers stiffly, near brutally, in and out of her, his knuckles banging against the sensitive skin between her legs. Occasionally, his palm slid against the hardened knot of nerves there, making her breath hitch as a tiny bolt of heat seemed to shoot from that spot. The widow knew that she may be bruised from the harsh finger fucking that Colonel Tavington delivered, but the joy was well worth it.

"Mmmmm...nnnnnn...ummmmm", was all she could do to moan her pleasure with her mouth still full of the officer's phallus.

"Damn Charlotte," the colonel cried, "I love my cock in your mouth. I love how wet it makes you!" He punctuated his words with a hard shove of his fingers, the tips hitting the back of her, tickling her cervix, making her moan again.

Mrs. Selton both loved and hated when William spoke crudely to her during their coupling. She loathed that he talked to her as a man would address a whore. Her! A lady of society. Yet it aroused her to hear him say it so blatantly, thrilling her and bringing her close to orgasm, loving the satisfaction yet abhorring that such crude words fired her passion.

Tavington could tell that his lover was close to the edge, yet needed a bit more help to crash over it. "You need a little more, don't you, my dear?" he coaxed. He loved it when she came while his cock was in her mouth. Her moaning, or the humming sound her lips made around his prick was lovely to feel.

"Yes. Three fingers," she whispered against the skin of his shaft. With that, the redcoat commander then jammed three digits hard up into her, showing no mercy and knowing that he was stretching her. He felt her sigh of pleasure against his stiffness which was thankfully, back in her mouth. She continued to draw her mouth steadily up and down his rigid length, slowly—agonizingly so. And after a few seconds, she came, moaning aloud with his cock still in her mouth. Her moistness flexed and closed around his fingers, making him anxious to feel that on his erection. The officer pulled his yard from her mouth and withdrew his fingers from her cream.

As her orgasm waned, she shifted her body on the bed, moving back up to lay in William's arms. As she moved, the woman was stunned and surprised when William's hand caught her, slapping her bare behind hard, which to her, felt as if it was a slap of discipline and not a lazy one of affection. "William!" she protested in a gasp of surprise, her hand moving back to her left cheek to caress the burning.

"Mount it!" he ordered.

The young widow turned herself around slowly to face her lover then straddled his lap. With the colonel between her thighs, she perched on the head of his rigid member teasing him heartily, letting the crown feel just a touch of her heat and moisture. Then she flexed her legs a bit, taking the corona inside her, breeching just her opening no more than an inch deep, all kept at bay at the entrance of her cave. She closed her eyes as an illicit smile curled her lips up. The helmet, so purple and swollen, stimulated her delicate hole, such a delicious feeling that if she kept on with just this light stimulation, she would come sooner than she wanted. She fought it though, loving teasing the redcoat commander this way and wanting to hear him beg her for more.

The head of William's cock quickly became sensitive and painful again, having already been brought there once moments ago. Needing release, his eyes closed as his head rolled back onto the pillow. Inpatient for completion, his hands went for her hips, intent to grab them and force her down further on him, but she intercepted, batting his hands away.

"Christ, woman!" he spat in pure frustration, "_Put it in_ your cunt!"

Charlotte smiled softly at his pleading but cringed inside at that word. She wondered sometimes if he thought of her as a woman or just something warm and wet to stick his cock into. Closing her own eyes, she sank slowly down on his erection. Once it was nestled deeply within her moistness, to the hilt, she sat still upon it and let lose a satisfied sigh.

"Yes, that's it," the colonel groaned. He brought his hands up to palm her breasts, fondling them lazily. "Move Charlotte. Slowly."

The woman complied, riding him at a languid, leisurely pace. And after a moment, she leaned forward and took his hands. She laid them on the pillow above his head and held him down there by his wrists. He let her, his penis twitching and swelling even more inside her assuring her just how much this excited him.

The position was just as delightful for her. Charlotte's still youthful breasts hung right above her lover's face. William's tongue soon slithered from between his lips to lick at her stiff, aching nipples, lapping at them as if they were sugary sweet. As the Carolinian beauty moved herself up and down his prick, the officer's lips caught each dusky pink peak, suckling each in turn, causing heat to grow between her legs, which coiled there waiting to be sprung. William sucked harder, creating a pull on her nipples that made her wince in pain and pleasure, then moan unabashedly with need.

Colonel Tavington managed to pull one of his hands free of the woman's, then reached up to cup the nape of her neck. He pulled her head down to his, where their mouths met and their tongues dueled. Charlotte pulled away from the kiss, her bosom still heavy with need.

She released the redcoat commander's other hand, then sat up and massaged her aching breasts a moment. Then she leaned forward again and braced herself on her left arm as her right hand was busy plumping her right breast as she pushed it back toward the prone officer. "Please, _again_," she pleaded shamelessly, "Suck it hard."

With that, Tavington latched on to the rosy nipple and grazed it a bit with his teeth. He did as she begged, suckling deeply, creating a suction that was nearly painful. William opened his eyes as and noticed a pink glow spreading across her chest, and it pleased him. He liked the blush on her pale white skin.

Mrs. Selton sat upward again, moving her hips sensually on the colonel's lap, ever massaging and coaxing his cock. Her pace quickened when he reached up to caress her breasts, pinching and rolling the hardened nipples. His hips soon joined hers in movement, bucking hard upward, meeting hers on her down thrusts. They held that rhythm steady for a moment, both anticipating their orgiastic rewards.

The pretty widow closed her eyes as her head dropped backwards, close to completion. Then the whimpers began, telling the redcoat commander that the feeling was upon her.

"Come Charlotte! Come for me!" he cajoled, looking at her intently.

Charlotte felt it first, deep in her core. A fire exploded there and quickly moved through her body, warming her limbs and shaking her.

"Yes, William!" she wailed, "I'm coming!"

Close himself, he continued his final thrusts as her orgasm rippled around his erection, deep inside her, bringing him to the edge.

"That's it, Charlotte! Loudly! Show me how I please you!" He was serving his own needs. William knew he pleased her, he just wanted _everyone else_ in the house to know, as well.

"Yes! William! WILLIAM! It's so good! You're an Adonis!" Her back arching, she leaned back, bracing her arms with her hands splayed firmly on Tavington's strong thighs.

Then, sparks ignited at the base of his penis, spread through his pelvis, and traversed the rest of his body, making his muscles tremble. His hot stream of thick semen fought gravity to shoot upward into the woman.

"Ah...God!...Oh, Christ!...mmmmmm!" he groaned at the apex of his pleasure.

Charlotte collapsed on William, who encased the woman in his arms and quickly rolled her off of him. Both still gasping and unable to speak, they snuggled together under the covers, the evidence of their coupling silently running warm and wet down the inside of the widow's thighs.

/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/

Hugh Bordon wanted to, and tried hard, to sleep longer, but the caterwauling of Tavington and his female guest in the commander's quarters woke him up and prevented him from going back to sleep. He put his pillow over his head, but could still hear the orgiastic moaning.

The dragoon second in command remembered the very blunt comment that Miss Burwell had made of the widow Selton in conversation with him three weeks ago. She had stated that even though Mrs. Selton had money and class, that her actions with Colonel Tavington were no more than those of a strumpet. And now, with her utter disregard of discretion, and the fact that she willingly exchanged her bodily integrity to keep her plantation intact, Bordon was inclined to agree with Betsy. The Selton woman was simply a trollop with wealth.

"Damn it," he muttered. "Have they no decency? No restraint? Rutting loudly like a couple of cats in heat!" Hugh rolled his eyes at the ridiculous audible display of passion, which hurt his head. After what was only a moment in reality but felt like an eternity to the captain, the cries died away. Bordon was glad.

The dragoon second in command lay there a moment, his arm over his eyes to shield them from the light. His body felt like a lead weight and his temples were throbbing.

"Oh, bloody Hell," Hugh Bordon slurred as he opened his eyes. The light was too bright and his head felt as if an axe had split it open like a rail. He forced himself to sit up. As his eyes adjusted to the daylight now filling his room, he looked about for his watch which was not on the nightstand.

It was only then that he realized he was still dressed, save for his shoes, cravat and coat, which he now spotted laying on the floor. The sheets were crumpled around him. Closing his eyes again, he forced himself to try to remember anything about last night. The last he recalled was standing at the punch bowl and looking across the room, and marveling at how "grown up" and elegant Miss Burwell looked.

"Shit," he said to himself. "I hope I didn't act like a complete idiot at the party. Worse, I hope I didn't do anything I will regret or get my sorry ass into trouble over."

At that point he started to ease himself out of bed. As he did, his legs felt constricted. He looked down to find his pants down slightly. But his eyes nearly popped from his pounding noggin as he saw his cock. It was crusted to the hair on his leg, but came away easily. He knew then that there had been a woman in his bed last night. But what concerned him the most was the streaks of blood on his member.

The officer rolled out of bed quickly and pulled back the sheets. There, in the middle, were two blood stains. He put his hand over his eyes and heaved a heavy sigh. "Damn it!"

He began pulling the bed linens off the thing himself. He had to get rid of the blood stained sheet lest he suffer gossip at the hand of the Burwell's house servants. "Bloody Hell," he swore again, mad at himself. "I fucked a virgin in my own bed last night and I have no idea who it was. I would like to at least remember the pleasure of it!"

As he pulled another sheet off, something flashed and fell to the floor, making a dainty tinkling sound as it landed on the wood. The captain stopped his task and bent over to retrieve the object.

It was a small bracelet; delicate, not gaudy. "It figures. A clue to the identity of my bed partner. She might as well be Cinderella and me the prince left with a shoe to try to fit on every girl in the kingdom."

He held the conservative bauble up in front of his eyes, examining it. _Expensive, he thought. She will definitely want this back._

"Well, who do you belong to?" he asked the bracelet.

The redcoat commander placed the bangle on the night table and went back to stripping the bed. It was down to the mattress the next moment. He wadded the stained, incriminating sheet and hid it, crumpled up behind his bureau.

Bordon made his way to his washstand, where he quickly dunked a linen into the water and then squeezed the excess from it just as fast. Then he cleaned himself up, washing his crotch and thighs, rinsing away the traces of his encounter with the mystery lady of the night before.

He tugged his breeches back up and buttoned them as he paced back to his nightstand. The man picked the bracelet up again, his head pounding even harder with the hangover the more his eyes focused on the dainty object, trying to recall anything of its owner. But his head hurt too much, and instead of pushing himself anymore to remember, he closed his palm around the piece of jewelry. The officer left his room in search of information and some Ward's for his headache. Once downstairs, he could get the pain remedy from the servants, as well as question them to see if one of the lady guests inquired about missing finery.

Once in the hallway, he met Miss Burwell, not dressed nearly as demurely as she was last night, once again looking the part of the lost young girl in her simple country farm dress. She smiled softly at the redcoat officer.

"Good morning, Captain," she greeted in a subdued voice.

"Good morning, missy," he answered.

"Here's some Ward's Powder for your head," she said, offering a small vial of the stuff to the redcoat. "Mrs. Leyanova sent it up."

"Give her my compliments," he answered warmly. In his opinion, the Russian head housekeeper knew more of that household than anyone there. She could predict the need of everything and everyone there and kept it all well organized. He thought the Burwell family well off to have her employed in that position. "That woman runs a tight ship here."

"That she does," Betsy agreed.

As the officer took the medicine from the girl's hand, her smile turned to a look of question as she noticed the shiny object in Bordon's hand. Suddenly, Betsy's face lit up.

"My bracelet!" she exclaimed with a wide smile and rounded eyes. "You found it! I thought it was lost forever."

She reached for it, but the redcoat officer clasped his hand around it possessively and pulled it out of her reach.. The revelation of the bangle's owner surprised and confounded him. A look of confusion and disbelief darkened his face. _No, it can't be hers,_ he thought to himself. _She was not the lady in my bed last night. It had to have been one of the other young ladies in attendance. _"Yours?"

"Yes, it's mine!" confirmed the young girl.

Still baffled, he needed to delve deeper. "When did you lose it?"

"During the party last night. Where did you find it?"

"In my room," answered the man, a hint of a curious tone in his voice.

The smile on Miss Burwell's face waned a bit, then recovered. Bordon could tell that she was hiding something.

"Oh." The girl wasn't sure what to say next, wanting their shared intimacy of the night before to remain forgotten; hidden.

"Why would your bracelet be in my room?" he asked, obviously fishing for a detailed answer.

In only took an instant for Betsy to come up with a logical—and innocent—answer. And it was the truth. She knew she could fabricate something if she had to, to save face, but his inability to recollect anything of the night due to his soused state was proving to be in her favor, so far. "You were quite drunk last night. You asked for help getting to your room. It was I who assisted you."

A clumsy silence passed between the two as he stared at the bauble and she tried not to squirm. Hating the quiet, which made her feel guilty, she spoke.

"It has a faulty clasp," she explained nervously. "It must have fallen onto the floor when I brought you in." With that, she reached out to recover the bangle, but the redcoat again pulled it away from her, as if teasing her.

Hugh Bordon was not irritated, but knew how to get the answers he sought; the truth. He was a top notch intelligence officer. The redcoat leader turned the pressure up a bit, the deadpan expression of his face never wavering as he scrutinized the nervous teen. "It wasn't on the floor."

Gulping hard, Betsy had to come up with something fast. She thought that for now, she would stick with the truth of helping him to his room. "No?"

"No," he said, his blue eyes boring into hers, so much so that she eventually looked away, unable to hold her gaze. "It was in my bed."

_Oh, God! Oh no! _Betsy screamed inside._ He has guessed! He knows! What do I do?_

She took a breath then began, trying to stay calm. "You couldn't stand, sir," she explained. "I had to assist you to your bed. It must have slipped off my wrist when I was leaning over to help you into the bed."

"It was worked well down into the sheets, Miss Burwell. Why is that?" His words were a statement; a question; and a blunt accusation.

Betsy, never a good liar, began to tremble. The girl fought back the urge to cry, making her throat hurt and too constricted to get any words of defense out.

The captain opened the door to his room and moved his arm in front of him, inviting the girl in. But there was no pleasure in his countenance. "I think you and I should have a talk, lass."

He shut the door behind him and asked the girl to have a seat. She sat in the chair, her mind racing to try to come up with any explanation, no matter how wild, to extricate herself from the truth. The girl watched him closely and curiously as he pulled something from behind his bureau.

Captain Bordon turned, and shook out the incriminating bedsheet that he had hidden. The wadded linen dropped out in a cascade, soon revealing two small stains of crimson. Though miniscule, the red was a stark contrast on the pure white of the sheet. The white innocence of virtue; the red of lies.

"Does this belong to you?" he queried in all frankness.

Betsy panicked, feeling like a small puppy caught near an incriminating stain of urination on a carpet. She immediately burst into tears and jumped from her chair. Bordon beat her in the race to the door, preventing her escape.

When she could not open the door, firmly kept shut from his weight against it, she hid her face in her hands and began to cry. She was burning with embarrassment and angry at herself for not being able to hide her emotions.

"Please, let me out," she blubbered, trying to twist the doorknob.

"Miss Burwell," he murmured in a comforting voice to the girl, trying to ease her humiliation, "I am not angry with you. I know what went on in this room last night and now I know with whom. But I don't remember any of it. I need to know the details."

The young lady's tears eased up a bit as she lifted her face from her hands. "Calm yourself, lass," he said as he took her wrist and led her away from the door. She did not put up a fight, resigned to the situation. Betsy sat back down in the chair and accepted the handkerchief he handed her.

She wiped her eyes and sniffled. "Please, I must know what happened," he pleaded.

But Betsy didn't know where to begin. Her voice left her, and she shook her head in frustration. Captain Bordon, always the consummate intelligence officer, began to interrogate gently, understanding that her voice had been seized for the moment.

He began cautiously, doling out his questions with a measure of empathy. "Did I force myself on you?"

"No," she answered. "But you were persuasive."

"Persuasive?"

"Seductive," she clarified.

"So...I seduced you," he said.

She nodded her head. A bit of irritation crept into the man's emotions. He kept himself calm, needing to know more since her revelation did not help him to recall anything. "Why would you let me seduce you?"

The girl shifted in her seat and sighed. She had been caught and knew she had to tell the truth, though it was draining her. She looked down, unable to meet his eyes while she answered. "Because you're handsome. Because I was curious and my fiance isn't here."

The girl paused, holding the redcoat officer spellbound, still flabbergasted at what had gone on between the two of them.

"Because I trust you," she whispered, as if it were a secret, or some kind of shame.

Hugh let go a heavy breath and stood up. He paced a couple of steps, running his hand through his unbound hair, before closing his eyes and shaking his head. The captain was wracked with shame, guilt, and remorse.

After some time of silence, he finally spoke again. "I took something that wasn't my right to take," he admitted aloud, but as if talking to himself.

"No," she countered in a murmur, "I gave it willingly." She looked up at him finally, her light brown eyes full of an innocence that she no longer possessed, and a willingness to take the blame upon herself. That put a barb firmly inside the redcoat commander's soul.

"That doesn't make me feel any better," he confided, feeling that desire to be let off the hook, but knowing he was to blame and could not be unbound from it. The dragoon paced a few nervous steps again then turned back to face the girl.

"Commander Clark, even though he is a traitor, is betrothed to you," Bordon began, as if he needed to explain or justify anything at the moment. "He and he alone has the right to possess your virtue on your wedding night, not I."

Betsy said nothing, knowing no words could ease the man's torment. It was a drunken mistake.

He sat back down and looked desperately at the girl. "If you feel the need to report me to the colonel, then I will not deny it and accept my terms."

"I let you," Betsy reminded him. "How can I report you?"

"Did I hurt you?" still needing to know what transpired in her bedchamber.

"No...I mean...yes...well," she stammered, "It did hurt, for a moment, but you were gentle."

"Miss Burwell, if you should find yourself with child," he began in earnest, "I will not deny it. I shall take responsibility for my actions and will see to you and the child."

The young woman was suddenly embarrassed again, not knowing what to say. After letting out a breath, she spoke. "I don't think that will happen."

"Oh, you are so innocent," he said, "It only takes one time."

"I know, sir," she said. "You left no seed."

"What?" Bordon is incredulous.

"You blacked out cold, on top of me. You did not complete."

Though still distraught that the drunken episode had happened, he breathed a sigh of relief. He had pictured himself with a musket at his back being forced to marry the young girl. Since his marriage ending with his wife and child dead from illness, he had not been anxious to settle down again—especially while fighting a war. He preferred to remain a fighting man primarily and could marry after Britain had won this conflict.

"I hope you won't speak of this to anyone," Bordon appealed, "I could lose my commission. It is against regulation to be intimate with prisoners. And though I purchased a commission to get into the dragoons, I have been promoted by rank on accomplishment. And, I admit my ambition is to keep moving up, hopefully to the position of General."

Miss Burwell wanted to assure the dragoon adjutant for his own peace of mind, yet she knew it was good to keep him on her side, to advocate for her for the duration of her term as a prisoner of His Majesty's Army. "It serves no purpose for me to say anything of this," Betsy relented. "It gets you into trouble and inspires gossip and talk about me, which you know I hate being the subject of gossip, and could not bear what my father and Colonel Clark would say...or do if they were to get wind of this."

"Look, I do think you are beautiful and any man would consider himself lucky to have your betrothal. You are from a well to do family. But you and I cannot do this again, no matter how drunk _either_ of us may be."

"Yes, I know. I understand," she said softly.

Bordon took her left hand in his and kissed it, and said, "With the utmost respect," then returned her bracelet to her, clasping it around her wrist.

Betsy smiled and left, going into her room. Once there she sank against the closed door, not knowing how to feel. She was relieved that their actions would remain unknown to all, yet was unsettled that he had found out. But most of all she felt disappointed. Disappointed that she would never have a chance to bed him while sober, an experience they could both remember and enjoy.


	30. Chapter 29: Fruit Crushed Into Pulp

Chapter 29: Fruit Crushed Into Pulp

_April 1778…_

Colonel Tavington slammed his left fist on the desk then quickly downed the amber fluid left in the bottom of the glass in his right hand. He rose from his desk and walked over to the window where he stared at the medical tent. The officer wondered how his injured men were faring at the moment. He felt the need to go see them, yet he knew they needed their rest. He could just as easily ask for a report.

He was on the verge of being drunk, treading that fine line at the end of being tipsy. He had been drinking for hours, since he returned. William blamed himself for the whole incident.

Tavington and a small guard, six men in all including himself, had gone three days ago to Fort Carolina for a meeting with the generals. On the way back, instead of sticking to the main road back to the Burwell plantation, they veered off at his suggestion on a weed choked byway that had been marked on the map drawn by Captain Bordon. They had made good time and had an extra hour, so he wanted to explore and follow Cross Anchor Creek a bit to find another possible place for wagons to ford it. The horses had no problem with it, but if a redcoat supply train needed to get off the main road in an emergency, a stable place for wheels to cross the water needed to be found. Bordon had yet to discover one, having only a little time here and there to ride the stream, but Tavington hoped to be able to give him the spot to mark on their maps.

The dragoons overtook a small group of rebels on the byway. The group gave a good fight then fled, unable to match the skills of His Majesty's cavalry. Chase was not successful due to the density of the forest surrounding. None of the green horse came away unscathed. All, including Tavington, had stab or bullet wounds. The worst of which were Donovan with a bullet through the non dominant shoulder and Private Balon with a severe bullet wound in the thigh. The other four had only minor stab wounds.

Private Balon, a young recruit from Virginia, was a promising young soldier. He had superb riding skills and had already proved to be one of the best marksmen they had. The youth was one of those recruits that learned quickly.

As he lay on the ground in William's arms while Corporal Tracy fashioned a field dressing and rude tourniquet, the soldier, a mere boy of 17, apologized. "I'm sorry, colonel. I didn't dismount fast enough." The Virginian had taken the bullet in his leg and was unhorsed immediately in one of the first round of shots fired by the hidden colonials.

And as he apologized over and over again through gritted teeth and in pain, Tavington finally ordered him to be silent. "Nonsense! Stop this silliness! You are one of my best," he barked. "Now be quiet and conserve your strength!"

The young recruit rode back to the farm as far as he could before swaying in the saddle. He fainted and was caught by the nearest dragoon, which happened to be Wentworth. The adjutant then drew the unconscious private over to his mount, resting him in his lap as the men made back to the Burwell homestead.

By the time they arrived, poor Balon had bled out so much that the thick crimson stain covered much of Wentworth _and_ his bay mare. The boy died on the operating table before a surgeon could even get to him. Tavington cursed the daring rebels and then himself for leaving a main road with such a small detachment.  
><strong><br>**In fury, he blazed a path to the house, screaming for Captain Bordon the whole way. The second in command met the colonel on the stairway and listened in confusion as his superior ranted in no specific order over what had transpired. Bordon, expert at interpreting his commander's tirades, took mental notes and organized them in his mind.

William ordered Hugh to take a small detachment and go after the small band of rebels, catch them and find out why they were in the area and so close to a known public billet of His Majesty's finest warriors. They were to give no quarter and leave their corpses to rot on the main road as a message for all who passed. Bordon, who had been busy with unit paperwork and dressed casually when Tavington and the detachment returned, was off immediately, throwing on his jacket and tying his cravat as he ran to gather men.

Hours later after dark, Bordon's unit had not yet returned, only adding to Tavington's foulness. He blamed himself for a fine young recruit's death. William drank whiskey steadily as he wrote a condolence letter to Balon's parents then wrote the skirmish report. When the whiskey ran dry, he stormed to the wine cellar for a bottle of madiera. As he drank his way through that, he couldn't seem to contain his hatred and disdain for all and any rebels, regulars, militia, townspeople—any colonial—involved or uninvolved in this conflict. And when that hate boiled to the top, fueled by the alcohol and remorse, his rage exploded and he did the only thing he could do to punish the rebels: he went after the closest one at hand; a young colonial; a girl. Miss Burwell. He recalled his promise to steal her virtue and use that as punishment against her father and fiance. And now was as good of time as any as he was spoiling for a fight to avenge his dead dragoon. She was ripe for the picking and he was in a fury to crush fruit into pulp under his booted foot.

/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/

Miss Burwell wiped her sleeved arm across her forehead and sighed wearily. She was in the warming kitchen at the back of the house helping servants Myriam, Polly, and Mrs. Leyanova knead bread dough. Pansy was outside in the cooking building, manning the ovens, baking the dough as it was brought out to her.

"Honestly, how much bread can the lobsters eat?!" Betsy complained, irritated at a recent order to double the amount of bread the Burwell farm had been supplying to the billeted dragoons. "They've nearly cleaned us out of flour! What do they expect us to live on?!"

The young lady punched her fists into the slab of dough, harder than she needed to, out of her own frustration at having to be in the kitchen this late at night to comply with their demands. She flipped the dough over, which raised a small cloud of white flour dust around the table. "If this is what they want, we're going to have to forego tobacco in the south field and plant wheat instead."

"Good for them; bad for us," Myriam chimed in from across the table. She twisted some dough into a loaf and placed it on a tray. She knew that though the farm would be compensated for more wheat grown for the bread, the tobacco there instead would have brought more of a profit to the farm.

"You've pounded that dough long enough, missy," the Russian head house servant said in a terse manner to Betsy, who looked up to see the older woman pointing accusingly at her. "Make it into a loaf and bring it here. That goes for you two, as well!"

The two servants and Betsy rounded the table and placed the raw loaves in front of the head house servant. The three girls began to reach for more flour but were soon halted.

"Well, this is it for the evening, girls," Mrs. Leyanova proclaimed. "We will get this out to Pansy to bake then we are going to bed. We have to have _some_ kind of sleep to do chores in the morning. The soldier men will just have to make do with what they got until tomorrow!" Her Russian accent, still thick even after years in the colonies, seemed to punctuate the words with a sharp edge.

Betsy dipped a cloth into the washbasin, wetting it thoroughly. She then set about to wiping the chunky dough from her hands, rubbing hard at the dough that always wanted to cling like paste to her fingers.

Just then, the quartet of women heard boots stomping down the ornate wooden stairway. In an instant, they looked up to see Colonel Tavington in the doorway, wild eyed and near drunk. A collective shiver moved through the group of women, who could tell that the man was upset over something.

They could see that he had been drinking for hours. His hair was out of its cue, long and wavy over his shoulders. The only remnants of his uniform that remained, aside from the boots that had hammered the floor bringing the women to attention, were his white shirt and black breeches.

The redcoat officer raised his arm and pointed accusingly into the room, his eyes narrowed and crazed. "You will come with me THIS instant, Miss Burwell!"

Unfortunately for the girl, the moment had arrived for the dragoon commander to make good on his threat to take her into his bed. She didn't have to be reminded; she had not turned her back on the man in weeks, avoiding him when she could, especially when Captain Bordon-her one slim chance at protection-was gone. Betsy only breathed relief when the aide de camp was at home, hoping that Tavington would not pursue the issue with his wise and diplomatic second in command on hand to somehow talk him out of it or otherwise distract him.

And as luck would have it, Bordon had not returned yet, and Tavington was drunk and spoiling for a fight.

Betsy knew what was coming, and her eyes immediately well up with tears as her body trembled with fear. She took a step back and fell mute. All she could do was shake her head "no", and sniffle. The three servants stood frozen in place, looking on in disbelief and fright.

The colonel wasted no time stomping into the kitchen. Miss Burwell started around the table to get closer to the door and away from him, but he stretched his long, lithe body and soon had her wrist in a vice grip. Equally as fast, he dragged her bodily from the room in front of the horrified female servants.

"No! Don't! Oh, God! Please, don't!" Betsy screamed.

Mrs. Leyanova, although terrified of the dragoon commander, leaned into the pretty quadroon maid, Myriam, and whispered instructions. "Go to the door and call for Mr. Walrdon or Mr. Hantz."

The wide eyed maid complied. As she headed toward the door, the Russian head houseservant stepped forward to try and intervene. "Colonel Tav-"

He interrupted the older woman before she could get anything else out. "I am not to be disturbed," he yelled with Betsy struggling in his grip. "Everyone here will regret it if I am! And you all know me well enough by now to know that I make good on my promises!"

"Let me go!" wailed the girl as Tavington had her already in the hallway, roughly pulling her along. She kept trying to plant her heals to stop him. All this did was upset the carpet runner, pulling it into heaped up lumps and causing her to trip and fall at the foot of the stairway.

Polly, Mrs. Leyanova, and Myriam had followed the colonel and his captive into the hallway, standing in perceived safety at the kitchen threshold. They stared in fright, wringing their hands, unable to do anything to help the girl. They could only assume that the near drunken and angry officer was dragging the girl to his room to either rape or torture her. And, just as the poor girl did a moment ago, they had wished that Captain Bordon had been there to be the voice of reason and stop the man. The trio of servants looked at one another, then to the outside, all hoping together and silently that the second in command would arrive on his horse. All the residents there knew that Bordon favored the girl and was often compassionate and patient with her.

At this point, they knew he was the only one who could help her.

Betsy was still crying out in appeal as they ascended the staircase. "PLEASE! HELP ME! Don't let him _do this_ to me!" Her cries twisted and echoed down the stairs to the second floor as they continued to climb.

And then, Betsy Burwell's voice disappeared behind a slamming door.

She immediately moved away from Tavington, and promptly fell backwards over something. From the floor, she looked up at the tall and menacing officer, then scooted backwards away from him. He grabbed her left forearm, making her whimper in pain, and hauled her up onto her feet.

The man threw her onto his bed, where she landed on her back. "Your father and fiancé are traitors and they must be punished now! You will pay for it in their stead with the forfeiture of your innocence, little girl!" he proclaimed as if he were a lawyer before a court of justice.

He unbuttoned his breeches, scrutinizing her as he did, enjoying her fright. In an instant, his body was atop hers on the bed, where he harshly kneed her legs apart as his hands pushed her skirts up.

Betsy fought him as best she could, but she wasn't near as athletic as he was. He wasted no time in pinning her slender wrists, held together in one of his large hands, above her head on the pillow as the other hand pulled his hardened manhood from his pants.

Unceremoniously and without hesitation, he shoved his prick up into her. She was not ready to receive him, having only a dry passage. Betsy turned her head and cried out at the pain of it, recalling that at least a drunken Bordon, weeks ago, had had the compassion to move slowly and gently at first.

William plowed his erection hard in and out of the girl for a few strokes, stopping every few to pull his hardness nearly out of her to check his cock for signs of her virgin blood. Not seeing it only made him punch in harder. Betsy had closed her eyes and bore it as best as she could, telling herself it would be over in a minute.

After a couple of moments of thrusting, the colonel still saw no sign of crimson fluid, nor had he felt the resistance of membranes within her. The girl also had not cried at the tearing of her maidenhead. And, he had deflowered enough virgins to know that something did not feel right about the girl's body and her lack of physical resistance and vocal objection after he had entered her.

The redcoat commander stopped, leaving his stiffened yard within the girl. Holding himself above her on his outstretched arms, his right hand took firm hold of her chin and turned her head roughly to look at him.

Her tear filled eyes met the ice blue eyes of the colonel, and she felt a shiver of cold move over her, then within her body. Those steely eyes were burning bright with anger.

"You rebel slut!" he ground out. "You are not a virgin!"

Betsy could no longer control herself and spat back, "No! I'm not! Someone else got there before you did!"

Furious, Tavington backhanded Betsy, making her cry out. She saw stars for an instant then regained her wits despite the stinging in her cheek. "Yes! I gave it to someone else of my own free will!"

The officer slapped her again, growling as he did. The girl continued to taunt him despite the blows. "It was a pleasure to give it to him all the while knowing that _you_ wanted it!"

"Bitch!" he yelled. The colonel curled back and slapped her hard in the face a third time. "Who was it?!"

"I'll never tell you," she teased. And then another blow fell. She howled out in pain then wept.

Miss Burwell was laughing at the colonel's surprise and crying at the same time from the pain of her beating. But, she was driven by the power of having an upper hand of some sort over Colonel Tavington, and it possessed her to keep taunting the man despite being beaten.

"Who!" he demanded to know, wondering if she had had relations months ago with Colonel Clark. Yet he was angered, wondering if it was some boy from the town that had deflowered her, or even one of his own men?!

"You'll never know who beat you to my virtue!" she blubbered out in between sobs. The sound of her own voice, a sickening mixture of weeping and cackling, made her nearly insane. She wanted this to stop, yet she couldn't seem to control throwing the officer's "second place finish" in his face.

"I chose him," she howled as another punch landed on her face. "And I enjoyed giving it to him!"

/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/

Bordon took off his gloves after handing his steed over to Private Gooden, the man offering to take the horses to the stable for the night. He removed his helmet as he headed up the steps into the main house. He looked weary.

Indeed the captain was tired. Firstly, he was dealing with his own grief as a commander of the dragoons, for the quick demise of Private Balon. Second after riding for hours, they had only seen signs of where the rebels that killed the novice cavalryman had been, and had found no new intelligence. He had no answers for his superior and dreaded telling him this. But he knew the man would want answers right away, so he resolved to let the colonel know immediately.

Once in the hallway, he encountered Mrs. Leyanova and Myriam the maid, who looked absolutely distressed. "What is it?" he asked, their faces grim enough to make him notice.

"The colonel says he is not to be disturbed," Myriam stammered.

Bordon blew out a frustrated sigh. No servant was going to tell him what he could and could not do in regard to dragoon business. He knew Tavington would want to know. He could disturb him for this news no matter what the man was engaged in.

Once outside Tavington's door, he heard grunts and groans. He could not discern if they were of pleasure or pain. Thinking the man in trouble, instead of knocking, he let himself into the room.

He was taken back at the sight before him. He saw a pair of female legs entwined with the colonel's breech covered limbs, and the man holding himself on stiff, strong arms above the female, rutting away.

"I'm sorry, sir," he apologized, obviously embarrassed. It was only while backing out of the room that the colonel shifted his body to look back at his adjutant that Bordon noticed who was in the man's bed.

He was at first stunned to see Miss Burwell there, her skirt hiked up to her waist, and the only thing shielding a view of her young quim was the redcoat officer between her legs. In an instant, Hugh Bordon was angry. He had just plumbed the girl weeks ago, in a drunken stupor, both vowing never to speak of it to allay any rumors. Then, he immediately felt jealous, for inside, he did like the girl enough to want to protect her, but his heart felt a pang of romance for her, as well.

Willliam Tavington ceased his thrusting, holding himself above the girl on his arms. He glanced back at his subordinate nonchalantly then looked back down at his captive. Betsy, her eyes blurred from tears merely closed them and turned her head away knowing that Captain Bordon knew it was her. Now, aside from the pain and humiliation of rape, her heart hurt as well, embarrassed and disappointed that the only redcoat she trusted had seen her in _his own_ superior's bed. She sobbed even harder now, thoroughly embarrassed and broken. Her face, red with slap marks, now began to burn with flushed redness of embarrassment to add to the sharp stinging of the punches.

"Ah, Bordon," Tavington crowed carelessly, "You can have her when I'm finished. I'll leave some for you!"

With that, Hugh Bordon shut the door, standing outside of it momentarily stunned and unable to move. When he willed his feet to walk, he was amazed that they didn't carry him to the landing and let him fall down the steps. He closed his own door and locked it, then sank back against it, feeling sick.

He suddenly realized that this little lass wasn't as innocent as she acted. She professed trust for him, and he had actually trusted her for the most part, though he trusted no colonial fully. But now he was finding that he had given her more credence than he had thought, for his heart ached. The captain too, now felt humiliated and embarrassed. Insulted as well. Miss Burwell had played him for a fool. He assumed that she had used him, and now she was using Colonel Tavington. But for what? Developing affection and trust to gain freedom? What a complete dunce he had been, so blinded by her feigned helplessness and innocence.

He went to his dressing table and splashed his face with cool water from his basin. The captain then stripped to his linen under drawers and looked about the darkened room for his flask. It was on his dresser, just where he'd left it. The man then crawled into his bed, taking the whiskey with him, for he knew he wouldn't be able to sleep without something to ease him.

/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/

In Tavington's bed, he had resumed lobbing his cock into Miss Burwell. He stopped long enough to grip the weeping girl's chin and pull her face up to look at him. "It makes no difference to me if you get pleasure from this or not. That is not the point. Maybe you will get your bellyful. Do you think Colonel Clark will want to raise a dragoon bastard? And how will your father feel about a redcoat by blow, hmm?"

Betsy didn't answer. The young lady closed her eyes again and let the man heave himself in and out of her, though she was feeling raw and sore. She hoped that his completion would come soon and bring this chaos to an end.

The colonel laid his whole body upon her, covering her. He buried his face in her shoulder as he reached up with both hands to grab the head board. With a tight grip on the wood, he pushed himself into her as deeply as he could, making her wince and feel nauseous. "So you are not a virgin, but God, you're so tight!"

After a few strokes, he felt the warmth, then the throbbing in his prick. And then a surge of tingling shot through his body, out to the tips of his limbs. He collapsed atop her after forcefully shooting his thick cream into her. As he rested after his satisfaction, he left himself in her as his breathing calmed and his strength returned.

Miss Burwell was relieved that he was done, but all she could do was lay there under him until he got up. She felt warm and wet inside, which made her cringe. A moment later, the colonel pulled his now flaccid member out of her, making some of the juice of his passion slip from her vagina, then onto her legs and the sheets. It felt slimy to her, and she sat up quickly as he exited the bed.

Betsy pushed her skirts down, and jumped from the bed. The officer did not give her a second look as he stood at his wash basin, washing all traces of her away from his groin.

Before she left his room, he taunted her one last time. "I'm going to absolutely enjoy telling your father and your fiance what I've done to you." She slammed the door behind her.

Betsy hurried along the corridor to her own room, but stopped short of going in. She stood there for a moment in the darkness, closed her eyes and sighed, still sobbing. The pain in her heart and sickness in her stomach would not ease until she could explain things to Captain Bordon. And though she was embarrassed and did not want to face him, she knew she had better get it over with now. _The sooner the better to clear up the misunderstanding, _she thought.

The lass took a minute to compose herself. She wiped the tears from her eyes and cheeks, wincing sharply as she did. Her face was throbbing wildly from the colonel's punches and only a slight touch aggravated it. _No matter_, she thought. She had to see Bordon right away.

Finding herself at his door more quickly than she had wanted, she took a deep breath, then let it out slowly, calming herself. And then she knocked.

"Go away!" came the angry response in the officer's deep voice through the door.

_My God. He's furious but I have to make him understand._ _I know he will speak with me_. "Please captain," she beseeched. "I need to speak with you."

"Yankee whore!"

The words tore at Miss Burwell's heart, making tears well up again. She sniffled them back bravely and kept on. "Please open the door. I can explain."

"No need for you to," Hugh yelled back, still refusing to open the door. "I saw it all!"

"You...you don't understand," she called back, desperation starting to creep into her voice, making it shaky.

"I understand perfectly!"

"Please sir! Let me in," she cried, trying to keep her voice low and keep the tears out of it.

"Go on to some other officer's bed! There are plenty of them!" The captain's voice was heavy and ominous.

"It's not what it seems," she whimpered. _Oh God, just please make him open the door._

"GO...AWAY...NOW!" he snarled, enough to scare the girl.

At that point, he went back to his bed, where he took a pull from his whiskey flask, and Betsy slinked away in the darkness of the hallway, her heart and soul heavy with grief and remorse.

She felt dirty, now beginning to feel the remnants of Colonel Tavington's seed running down the inside of her thigh. Betsy pushed her hand between her legs and dabbed at it with her skirt. She needed a hot bath immediately, wishing to wash away all the illicit traces of the dragoon commandant.

Padding quietly down the hall toward the stairwell, she moved just as silently down the steps. Halfway down, within earshot of the kitchen, she made a request in a low, forlorn voice. "Is anyone awake?"

"I'm here, missy," Mrs. Leyanova answered, coming in from the kitchen drying her hands on her apron.

_Thank God it is too dark for them to see me clearly, she thought. _"I apologize, Ma'am," she began, "I know it is late. But I need a hot bath now. Could someone please bring the water to my room?"

"Of course," the Russian maid answered.

"Don't worry about retrieving it tonight," she whispered. "Someone can get it in the morning."

"Very good, missy."

She wasn't sure how she did, but somehow the young woman made it up the stairs and soon found herself in her room. Betsy slipped out of her clothes quickly, leaving them on the floor where they landed, beyond caring at this point. She wrapped her robe around her and sat on the bed.

Her body was soon wracked with sobs, so much so that she doubled over as she wept. A cacophony of thoughts and worries crashed around her mind giving her a headache to couple with the ache of her face, now swelling from the blows she had suffered.

Seeing Tavington atop her as he forced himself on her, then seeing his hand just before it smashed across her face played over and again in her head. Her heart hurt at the recollection of Captain Bordon's refusal to speak with her, to assume that he must have felt betrayed. And then she wondered what her Father and George would think when they found out. And then she had the rumors with which she would surely have to contend, for she knew that Tavington would not bother to keep this tidbit of lurid news to himself.

Betsy wrapped her arms around her body, and rocked herself in her own embrace, wishing that her mind would stop tormenting her for just one moment of peace.

/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/

Hugh Bordon was still in a sour mood this afternoon, unable to shake it away. He arose that way. The redcoat officer was still smarting from the sight of young Miss Burwell in the bed of his commander...beneath him, skirt up, legs open wide with Tavington snuggled between them.

The captain thought that his having slept with the girl and been given her virginity at her own hand, that_ he_ had a special part of his "ward" that no other man would have—that is, until she married Colonel George Rogers Clark. It had been his secret that he guarded closely; close to his heart. He had not blinded himself to the fact that he had noticed her innocent and blossoming beauty, and had feelings of affection for her that extended beyond merely being a protective captor. And, it hadn't been long after he had met the girl, only a matter of weeks, for him to feel in his being that he wanted to bed the girl; to bask in her sweet innocence. Those emotions were gone now. And all it took was her willingness to spread her legs for William Tavington.

The captain was glad he that he hadn't let the girl into his room last night—for explanation or consolation. In his eyes, she had betrayed him, using her youth and innocence as a tool to get something, of what he could only speculate.

In the morning, Bordon had been glad not to have crossed paths with Miss Burwell. She did not appear at the breakfast table. The girl was not busy at any of the chores she regularly assigned to herself, work that owing to the privilege of being the owner's daughter she did not have to do but did any way to keep busy and from going insane. No, this morning, her tasks had been divvied up by her servants. No one had uttered her name.

When the sun was high in the sky over the farm, the young lady did not appear for lunch or any afternoon chores. She was not seen seated in the shade sewing. She was not seen lounging in cool parlor reading to escape the spring warmth. She was not seen sitting at a desk or table attending the plantation paperwork.

The girl was lost, and her bedchamber door remained locked securely, no noise heard from within.

_Good, _Bordon thought_. She should keep a low profile. For once, she has chosen wisely. _

_She is a disgrace. She has embarrassed herself. She has blemished her character. Knowledge of her action will offend her father and fiance. And she has severely tarnished the good name of Burwell...at least it is a good name here in the colonies._

The green dragoons were in residence today, observing one day of mourning their messmate's death. Bordon had spent the morning writing letters to new and formerly rejected candidates to fill the late Private Balon's now vacant spot. He had handed them off to a messenger to have them ferried immediately about the county. The second in command needed to speak with Colonel Tavington on brigade matters, but was glad not to have to be in his superior's presence after seeing him atop Miss Burwell last evening. The regiment aide de camp had been told that his superior was spending the day with the men down at the tents, probably gambling and whoring, and Bordon was not about to disturb him.

Hugh found himself with his work done and some free time. He had received a request from his superior to bring his fiddle and come down to the tents to play for the men, who needed their spirits lifted. The captain emerged from his room with his instrument under his arm and descended the stairway.

The redcoat officer arrived in the parlor, which was empty thankfully. He stood at the piano in the corner, plinking out notes in which to tune his instrument. He'd pluck a string, then settle the violin under his chin and pull the bow across it, listening carefully to the sound. A lovely Spring breeze blew through the open windows as he tuned.

After a few moments, his solace with his fiddle was interrupted by the familiar voices of Mr. Waldron and Mr. Hantz. The voices annoyed him. He looked out the window to see where they were and found they were near the front door in the shade of the covered veranda. They talked away, thinking that Captain Bordon was busy in the parlor with his fiddle, paying no mind to them. The dragoon second in command blew out a frustrated sigh, rolled his eyes, and went back to his tuning.

"That's just it," said the heavily German accented voice of Mr. Hantz. "No one seems to know what happened."

"Well, if it was at the hands of that colonel, it wasn't good," Mr. Waldron.

These words got the attention of the redcoat officer. Bordon, still in the midst of tuning, let his left arm, holding the violin, relax at his side. He padded quietly on the fancy carpet back to the window, staying close to it, but out of the eyesight of the two rebel overseers conversing nearby.

"Indeed. Mrs. Leyanova said the lass was scared and screaming when he dragged her out of the kitchen," Hantz informed.

"Yes. I was told that one of the women tried to come get one of us," claimed Waldron, "but that lobsterback threatened them!"

Captain Bordon was suddenly confused. He figured correctly that they were speaking of Miss Burwell. But when he barged in on the two within Tavington's quarters, there was no screaming. He did not see that the girl was resisting.

The dragoon adjutant went on, quietly eavesdropping on the conversation.

"When she didn't come for meal," Hantz continued on, "Mrs. Leyanova took it up to her but she refused to let her in."

"Yes, I know that much," Waldron agreed. "She asked me to go up and talk to her. She wouldn't open the door, telling me to go away and that she would not see anyone!"

The two senior farmhands were interrupted just then by frantic shouts. This was followed an instant later by Polly, the young maid and Shep, the young African squire, running across the front lawn after some escaped livestock.

"Mr. Hantz! Mr. Waldron!" yelled Polly. "Come quickly! The ram knocked the gate open and all the goats got out!"

"Damn!" Waldron swore, and with that the two older men were off the porch. Bordon watched the fiasco out the front window, glad that he was inside. He had chased his share of goats and sheep on his own family's estate back in England years ago.

But, the words of Hantz and Waldron disturbed the man. They seemed contrary to what he had witnessed so very quickly last evening. And though he picked his fiddle up and tried to continue tuning it, he could not. Being the good intelligence officer, he had to get to the bottom of this situation because it didn't sit right.

The man went upstairs to his room. Hugh laid the instrument on his bed and thought for a moment. On his desk lay two invoices for the girl to sign. The officer picked them up then sauntered out of his room and across the hall.

He knocked on Miss Burwell's door. "Go away!" she said.

"It's Captain Bordon," he called again, trying the door knob. It was locked.

"I don't want to see anyone!" the girl yelled in an irritated voice.

Bordon, as an officer, was not going to play at the girl's juvenile game, whatever it was about. He knocked harder, more assertively. "Miss Burwell! You _will_ open this door right now!"

"I am not a dragoon," she screamed. "You can't give me commands."

Her resistance made him angry. "You and all who reside here are to follow our instructions! Now, open the door, lass!"

Inside her room, Betsy fought back tears. She had really hoped to hide herself in her bedchamber for some time; or a few days; or the rest of her life.

The young lady held her breath then let it out. She walked to the door and opened it, immediately moving back away from it toward the window. Betsy crossed her arms in front of her chest, and turned away from the officer, not wishing to see him as he entered, and not desiring anyone to know the shame of her battered countenance.

"I have invoices for you to sign," he said.

_That is all he wanted?! He could have shoved them under the door and left them,_ she wanted to scream. The girl just wanted was to be left alone for a couple of days. Time enough to allow the bruises to fade. Time enough to allow her psyche to start to mend.

"Yes, sir," she answered in a quiet voice, careful to keep it calm and emotionless. She kept her back to him, not wanting him to see the contusions. Also, it hurt her too much to look at him, the words "Yankee whore" still echoing in his deep, angry voice in her head; that name he called her still stinging her heart. "Please...just...leave them and I'll slip them back under the door signed."

The officer narrowed his eyes at her. Immediately suspicious at the rebel girl, he knew the signs. She was hiding something. And after finding her in his commander's bed last night, she had proven that her innocence and naivete was all an act. She could not be trusted.

"I am an officer of His Majesty's army," he spat without patience. "You will turn around and face me right this instant and accord me with the respect I am due!"

_OH GOD NO! I don't want anyone to see me like this! I don't want any talk. I don't want to answer any questions. I don't want people to speculate over it. Just leave me alone!_ Consumed in her own fretting, she couldn't find the courage to look at him.

"NOW, Miss Burwell!" Bordon said in a low, threatening voice in which she heard the very last bit of his restraint. After all these months, Betsy knew the dragoon adjutant well enough to know that he was on the verge of losing his temper, which would mean a raised voice. And an officer's shouts drew throngs of onlookers hoping for a sensational show.

The young lady turned slowly. Her eyes met the captain's blue ones then she immediately dropped her head, stupidly hoping he hadn't see anything.

Hugh Bordon's eyes widened to the size of saucers as his mouth dropped open. "What happened?!" he exclaimed as his now slack hands dropped the invoices, which scattered around the room as they fell to the floor. This officer, who was used to seeing death and wounds of all kinds on men, was utterly shocked and momentarily speechless. He suddenly realized that he had never seen such a young, pretty girl marred up. He had seen older women, mostly prostitutes with occasional facial bruising, a hazard of that profession.

Her cheeks were red and swollen angrily. Both eyes were black, and she bore various shades of purple bruises on her chin, jaw and cheeks.

Not wanting to answer or look at him anymore, the Burwell girl dropped to her knees and began to busy herself picking up the loose invoices. She had hoped that in that distraction, that the redcoat adjutant would feel uncomfortable and just leave.

Instead, Bordon dropped to the floor as well and grabbed her left wrist to stop her. "No, no. Just leave those."

"Don't!" Betsy said, batting his sympathetic hand away. It was then that Bordon noticed violet contusions on her wrists and forearms. Small circles resembling fingers.

He stood, still unsure of what had happened. "I'll send for Doctor Sweeney from town."

"I don't want a doctor," she cried as she caught the last form in her hand.

"That's absurd! You obviously_ need _one!" He backed toward the door.

"No!" Betsy exclaimed, her voice cracking as she stood quickly.

Still feeling useless and confused, Hugh marched to the door, and began to open it, his hand on the doorknob. "Then I'll call for our medic!"

With that, Betsy threw the papers down onto the table in frustration. She sat down on the edge of her bed and burst into tears. "Yes! Go ahead!" she sobbed, "Expose my shame to everyone!" Then she covered her face with her hands as she wept, careful not to touch her throbbing skin.

The British captain shut the door quietly, and stood looking at the sobbing, humiliated girl. He stayed silent a moment, just watching her while she cried. He thought about how furious he had been at her last evening, and was feeling disturbed at seeing her now in her sorry condition.

A small sigh escaped the man's lips as he took a step toward her. "If you will tell me about the incident," he began in a soft voice, "then I can better decide if a doctor is needed or not."

The man fished his handkerchief from his jacket pocket and handed it down to the girl. She took it and dabbed gently at the tears on her face as he reached for a chair. He drew it up close to the bed, where he turned it, and sat down facing the young lady.

He first carefully and slowly took her hands and turned them over, looking at her wrists and forearms, studying the bruising there. She winced but he could tell she was trying to hold back.

His right hand moved cautiously to her face, where his index finger gently raised her chin up. She whimpered audibly as he did this. Bordon lowered his hand a bit. "It hurts," she sniffled.

"Yes, I'm sure it does," he replied in a subdued voice, still looking over the angry injuries.

"And when I cry, too," she added, her voice broken. Just this act of weeping was hurting her injured face.

"Yes," he agreed, as he finished up perusing the injuries.

When he was done, Betsy looked down and shook her head. Now that he had seen her, and the worst of that was over, she bravely brought her face back up. She trained her broken and tear filled eyes on his.

"Now, calm yourself and tell me what happened," he cajoled in a soothing voice.

"It was your commander," she answered in a whisper.

"Colonel Tavington did this?" he asked and she nodded, confirming it. The captain had seen his superior do worse, so he didn't doubt the Betsy's accusations. And, he had seen the girl in his leader's bed just last evening.

"Why?"

"Because someone else spoilt me before he could."

Bordon was taken aback and said nothing as his mind mulled over her words. Again, he wasn't shocked to hear that his commanding officer sometimes favored the tactic of "soiling virgins" , or at least the threat of it, to get rebel compliance. However, he thought Tavington was having some personal, physical satisfaction as he screwed the girl and that it didn't really matter if she really was a virgin or not. He was puzzled.

"Did he tell you this?" asked the befuddled officer.

"Yes, and I knew it ahead of time, as well," she murmured.

"I must admit that I am confused, Miss Burwell." Hugh looked at her bruises again, as if the was an answer there. After a moment, he spoke again. "Something is missing here. Please start at the beginning."

Betsy sniffled again, and wiped the remnants of hot tears from her face and eyes. "A few weeks back, before the ball here, Colonel Tavington called me into his office. He told me that it was time for my father and George to pay for their traitorous actions."

She paused to take a breath, wanting to remain calm as she revealed the horrible episode. For so many weeks, she had kept his threat a secret and carried a fear that the dragoon commandant was going to exact the punishment. "He made an advance toward me. The only thing that stopped the assault was a messenger at the door."

She pursed her lips as she felt tears well up in her eyes, trying hard not to start crying again. The girl looked at the floor and thought of how much she hated the colonel, and that gave her a bit of strength to carry on, exposing her own shame. "He let me go that day, but not without a warning."

The ominous feeling hung heavy in the air over the two as they talked. Miss Burwell was trying her hardest to remain composed as she spoke, and Captain Bordon was doing his best to remain analytical, just as if this was just another prisoner interrogation for intelligence.

"What was that?" Bordon asked anyway, but he knew his commander well enough to have a bad feeling about what Tavington had said to her.

"That he would be the one to have my virtue," she responded, "no matter how he had to get it. And that he would make sure that father and George knew that he had spoiled me as punishment for their transgressions against the Crown."

She continued on, willing herself to keep emotionless, if only for a moment or so. "From then on, I have been looking over my shoulder for him."

Bordon was anguished, always wondering why people wouldn't want to reveal a situation that might be preventable. But then again, he saw it from the soldier's standpoint: that he had the might and authority to provide protection. He had forgotten in the heat of her revelation that she was a young, scared girl.

He also felt a twinge of insult. He thought that as the head of intelligence for the regiment that he should have heard of this. The captain felt that he knew most everything that was going on in their unit and the local countryside. It was unusual for his own commander to keep a plan, even one as sensitive in matter as this one, confidential from him. For some reason, it had been held back from Bordon. Hugh wondered if William had noticed how close he had become to the girl. After all, it was Tavington who made the coarse comment last summer about Hugh 'ceasing the slow seduction' and fucking the lass. Bordon had to admit that he had more than just feelings of protecting her as a child captive, that he had formed a bit of romantic attachment to the girl. And, after all, the biggest secret of all, that he had possessed her virtue himself during a drunken escapade that luckily, only he and Miss Burwell knew of. But, maybe he had become a bit too friendly and protective of the young lady. Maybe through his _own_ carelessness, that now showed through for all to see. What if he was no longer trusted?

Then, the captain recalled that Colonel Tavington had threatened publicly to steal the girl's virginity. He had declared it during prisoner exchange negotiations with Colonel Burwell last summer. Bordon had dismissed it at the time, not thinking much of it because it was a common threat uttered from William's mouth. It didn't affect him as much at the time because he barely knew Miss Burwell; she was just another prisoner. It sickened him now, because he cared for Betsy, and would have done his damnedest to prevent the assault.

At this moment, Hugh Bordon was angry with everyone involved. He was furious with Tavington for doing something so heinous, and for his commander not telling him of his plan. He was upset with the girl for not letting him know of the threat. But mostly, he was mad at himself for his own lack of foresight in the situation to have not even guessed that his commander would try this with the girl, and for not recollecting that he had already made the threat months ago.

The captain jumped up from his seat and paced the room for a moment. He stopped to look out the window, shaking his head in disbelief. The officer rubbed his forehead with his hand, feeling a physical headache coming on at the internal and external troubles that this incident would cause.

Hugh Bordon heaved a heavy sigh then turned to face the girl. She looked pitiful and downtrodden, yet he admonished her anyway. "Why didn't you tell me of his threat?" He paced again impatiently as the girl looked up at him, those innocent eyes of hers filled with tears and pain, and as much confusion as he had.

He asked again, nearly accusing her this time. The redcoat captain did not give her time to answer, bowing to his own ardor and anger. "Why wouldn't you tell me something like that?!"

Betsy could tell how upset the man was, which made her afraid. She closed her eyes and sighed. Then she looked up at him again and replied, "What could you have done about it?"

"If I'd have known of it, I would have tried anything in my strength to have prevented it," he shot back. "I am sure I could have come up with something!"

"You wouldn't have believed me," she defended, almost weeping again. "You're his adjutant!"

"Yes, I would have!" he shouted. He knew the girl well enough now to tell when or not she was lying. And, he knew his commander well enough to know what he was capable of...and what he had done in the past. "I could have helped you!"

"No you couldn't!" Betsy yelled as she jumped to her feet. After panting with breath, she took a deep one, and quickly composed herself again. "You weren't even here when it happened. I can't expect you to be with me at all times."

"That doesn't matter that I wasn't here," he rebutted. "If I had known, maybe I could have talked the colonel out of doing something so deplorable to you."

"You yourself told me that you can protect me from anyone and anything, save for Colonel Tavington." The words were quiet and resigned, yet they rang loudly in Bordon's head and soul. They were his own words, and he knew they were true.

Dejected, Betsy sat down, and Bordon followed suit, knowing they were getting nowhere arguing over what the captain could and could not prevent, and something that had happened in the recent past.

The past could not be changed.

"Go on with your account," he said, sounding as deflated as the prisoner was. "How did last night come to be?"

It was painful, shocking and embarrassing, and she didn't want to repeat it. She knew she had to tell him and it had to be the truth, now that the other parts were out there. "He...uh..."

She stopped to suck in a breath, then she began again. "I was downstairs in the warming kitchen, helping with the bread dough. He had been in his room all day yesterday, while you were gone."

Bordon knew that was most likely true. They had lost a fine young soldier that day, and he knew Tavington to be one to not want to deal publicly with his own grief. He continued to listen to the girl.

"He came downstairs and dragged me up to his room," she informed. "I fought him as best as I could. None of the servants could help me. They heard me! He told them that he wasn't to be disturbed."

She stopped and choked back a sob. "He raped me," she told him in a shame filled whisper. She wiped a tear from her eye, and went on. "After a few minutes of rutting into me, when there was no blood and no maidenhead to tear, he realized that I wasn't a virgin."

"I'm sorry," Captain Bordon remarked, his voice low.

"He asked and I confirmed his suspicion," she continued, "then I taunted him about it, which didn't make matters any better. He was too strong to fight against, so I spoke out instead. I don't even remember when it was that you came to the door. I think I had hoped you would rush in and pull him off of me."

"I should have, even at the risk of insubordination," the officer admitted.

"He demanded to know who did it," Betsy informed. "Again I teased him and asked why it mattered, that the deed had already been done. Then he beat me."

Miss Burwell stood and turned away from the officer. She sighed and shook her head, scrunching her eyes shut as the assault replayed in her mind at that moment. "The beating was well worth it."

"Miss?" he began, clear to her that he didn't understand.

She turned back to face him. "I would have rather have had a beating then let my virtue be stolen by force, by him! And as it turned out, I had the opportunity to bestow it to someone I trusted weeks earlier, rendering my innocence unavailable to him."

Everything was clear now. He realized that Miss Burwell has lived with an attempted assault on her person, and the threat of finishing that assault for weeks now. Knowing that an attack was imminent, she welcomed Bordon's drunken advance, giving him her virtue. She protected him, refusing to tell the colonel who had deflowered her. And, not only had she been raped by the dragoon leader, she took a beating from him because she wasn't innocent.

Hugh looked at the floor and sighed. Feeling heavy hearted, he looked at the young lady. "This is all my fault," he lamented. "You were beaten because you weren't a virgin...because _I _took it. And I should have known that Colonel Tavington would try something like this."

"This is not your fault," Betsy countered. "I bear the responsibility."

She touched his wrist, and looked into his face. "I am not sorry. I gave you my virginity so that he wouldn't have the chance to take it. And I chose to keep his threat a secret."

"But now your virtue is gone and cannot be retrieved," Bordon commented. "It should have been given to your husband."

"It couldn't be helped," Betsy allayed. "The situation was desperate. I did whatever I could to keep myself in control of whatever I could."

Just then, Betsy burst into tears again, burying her face in her hands. "But the worst is yet to come. He is going to tell my father and George what he has done. And who knows how many others. It will be all over the countryside."

Bordon said nothing, feeling guilty enough as it was. He knew the Colonel would exploit the escapade for his benefit. Propaganda went a long way.

The girl cried even harder. "The colonel said that he hoped he got my bellyful. He asked what my father would think and if Colonel Clark would see fit to raising a dragoon bastard."

The captain felt sick. He had known of two instances, one back in England, and one in Pennsylvania, in which Colonel Tavington had left both women after making them pregnant. Both situations ended badly for the women, and the colonel escaped being held responsible for the pregnancies.

"Miss Burwell, I assure you, he will be made to take responsibility for you and the child," he assured, "should you find yourself in a family way."

Betsy spun around on her heel to look at the captain. A wild look of panic was in her eyes. "No! I don't want that! I don't want to be forced to marry him and spend the rest of my days with him! And I don't want to bear his child!"

She wept harder now, which moved Bordon. He stepped closer to the girl, pulling her into his arms. Not surprising, she did not fight him. Perhaps she was too worn down by the whole ordeal. Her face still in her hands, she rested against his chest as she sobbed.

He himself was awash with emotion. If it wasn't for the fact that the poor girl was weeping spasmodically, he would be fighting an erection that he knew Miss Burwell would feel against her. He couldn't help but smell the sweetness of her hair, and feel how soft it was as he ran a comforting hand over it. The soldier loved holding her in his arms, which had been a scan t few times, feeling as if he protected her. He loved the nearness of her; feeling her body against his in an innocent way.

Also, the dragoon second in command felt bad and a little jealous that his commander now had carnal knowledge of the girl. The officer hoped that she wasn't pregnant with the colonel's child. Then he would have to witness her life ruined by the fiend, and live in sight of it and his own feelings over it every day.

Captain Bordon felt the need to comfort her not only for her, but for himself. Aside from his own selfish reasons of the physical as a man, he needed to find some way to absolve himself for a situation that he caused, or felt that he did. And though Miss Burwell assured him that he "saved" her from her virtue being stolen by someone she detested, Hugh still felt that her husband should have it first. At the moment, he didn't know if there was ever a way to make this whole thing square with him.

"If you are with child," he queried in a soft voice, "what do you want to do about it?"

The young woman broke away from his embrace and turned to face the window. She shook her head and sighed, looking down all the while. "If Mama was here, she would send me away and keep things quiet. The child would be put in an orphanage."

"Yes, but she isn't here," Bordon reminded her.

Betsy stepped aimlessly toward the window. She closed her eyes as she crossed her arms in front of her chest. "Pennyroyal, I guess."

"Don't even think that!" he scolded. "That would cause a much worse scandal." The dragoon adjutant had enough basic knowledge of medicine to know that Pennyroyal was an abortifacient. Prostitutes and unfortunate women sometimes used the plant in different forms to intentionally end unwanted pregnancies.

"I suppose I would take to my room; isolate myself," she said. Bordon nodded his head in agreement. He knew that may be the best way, to stay away from the village and public gatherings when she could no longer hide a pregnant belly. Her not being seen for weeks would cause gossip, but her being seen unmarried with a large belly would cause the ruining of her family.

"You will tell me when your monthly comes on?" he asked tentatively. She had informed him privately that she had her period after they had coupled when he was drunk, which had given him great relief that he had not gotten her bellyful. Maybe she would be willing to let him know this time, as well. Then he could share in her relief or dismay if it didn't come.

She nodded as she dabbed at her eyes with his handkerchief. Betsy looked up at him as he moved toward her again. The officer reached out and lifted her chin up gently with his finger tips, again making her wince. He surveyed her bruising again for a moment, and then spoke.

"Put some chamomile in with your vinegar and water," he said. "It will help the bruises heal faster. And make the water for your compress as cold as you can take it. I have found that cold water on my wounds helps to alleviate the pain and swelling."

She nodded and smiled a bit, happy that he had decided not to involve a doctor or medic. Betsy was satisfied to be able to deal with this in her manner: to stay in her room until the bruises and swelling faded, avoiding questions and stares. The girl watched as the brawny officer stopped in the doorway.

"I will instruct the staff to leave you to your room for the next few days," he advised, "and that only Mrs. Leyanova is to bring your meals."

"Thank you, captain," she replied gratefully.


	31. Chapter 30: Poison

Chapter 30: Poison

_May 1778..._

Hugh Bordon looked up from his paperwork upon hearing the soft swishing of layers of skirts. He saw Miss Burwell standing just outside the open door to her father's office, where the Green dragoon second in command sat at the massive desk.

"Tea, captain?" Betsy asked from the doorway.

"Yes, please," he answered. The officer was glad that they still had access, though limited sometimes, to tea and coffee. With the war and shortages, so many of the colonists had trouble getting those beverages. The British officers had their share of difficulty obtaining it, but _they_ took priority over the colonial residents, usually commandeering the valuable drink if need be. Bordon had assumed correctly that this was one of the scant reasons that the residents of the Burwell farm could find as an advantage to having the redcoats billeted there, for he heard no complaints about having the stuff on hand.

Betsy laid the delicate porcelain tray down on the officer's desk. She poured him a cup of the hot liquid and opened the sugar container for him. He thanked her as he spooned a lump of sweet granules into the cup.

"Miss Burwell, do you forget that you have servants?" he asked, half teasing, half serious, as he stirred the sweetener into his tea. He admired her for helping out with the work of her plantation even though she was endowed with the society and wealth it brought. She could have an easier life. He had seen more than a few Carolina matrons leave all of the household and farm work purely to the servants and slaves. _Perhaps if she wasn't running the plantation for her late mother and brother, and absent father, then she would enjoy the leisure of the cultured provincial gentry, he thought._

"Father is gone and the days are long if I do nothing," she replied. "I believe I would go mad."

She caught sight of the empty wine decanter sitting on the sideboard by the book shelf. The girl scowled at the crystal container as she stepped over to retrieve it, making a mental note to fill it and return it to the office later. "You, sir, are from a wealthy family in England. Why do _you_ trouble yourself with a soldier's labors?"

"Because it was expected of me and it is the right and loyal thing to do," he said after a sip of the tea. "I wouldn't ask my men to do anything I would not do myself."

"It seems that we both want the days to move quickly during this war," she said in a resigned voice.

"Hmm," he agreed, nodding his head as he went back to writing.

Betsy moved toward the door with the crystal decanter in her hand. She stopped in the doorway and turned back to face the busy officer. The maiden let a slow breath escape, then spoke.

"All is well with me, Captain," she said, rather cryptically.

"Hmm?" Bordon looked up at her, puzzled.

"You won't have to report Colonel Tavington to the generals," she said, slow and cautiously, "or have to put your musket into his back to force him into an obligatory marriage."

The young lady's flux had come a week ago, and it was a normal monthly. Never had the girl been so happy and relieved to have blood, cramps, and bloating.

"Oh," replied Hugh, a grin crossing his face as he understood. "What a relief...for you, I mean."

He was secretly glad that she had not become pregnant at the hands of his commander. The captain, for Betsy's sake and his own , was relieved as well. He would have hated to see the girl miserable as Tavington's unwilling wife and mother of his child. And things would have been deplorable for the dragoons and all around, as well, having an unhappy commander who already possessed a short temper. Bordon, who genuinely liked and cared for the girl, didn't want to have to billet here and be forced to live with that situation every day and the inward anguish it would bring to him.

An awkward silence passed between the two as Betsy stood in the doorway. Finally, after a moment of quiet reflection, she pushed the door shut quietly, then spoke.

"Captain," she began in a low voice, her eyes cast down, "Thank you for your protection and your caring these last few months. No other redcoat cares."

"You're very welcome, Miss Burwell," he responded, his deep voice nary a whisper.

She looked up and her eyes met his blue eyes, which were warm and sincere. He tilted his head and studied the girl, who still seemed so forlorn since her mother had died over a year ago; since she had been captured all those months ago.

"Please do your best to make good decisions and stay out of trouble," said Hugh sympathetically. "That's all I can ask."

"Yes, sir," she replied in a whisper. She opened the door and soon ducked though it, leaving Tavington's adjutant to a desk full of legion paperwork.

/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/

It was late afternoon of the same day and Captain Bordon had been shut away long enough. He'd finally finished payroll and sending invoices off to the generals at the fort. He was glad to be able to leave the confines of the farm's office and his administrative duties.

The officer retired to his room with a light lunch in hand. For the scant hour he was there, he ate as he read two letters he had received from home: one from his brother and one from a friend. Afterward, he pulled his jacket on and stepped out the back door to check on the men.

As he stood on the back step adjusting his neck stock, he remembered that he had run out of firewood in his room during the night, and had noticed moments ago that it had not yet been replenished by the servants. Though it was late spring, if they had another cool night like last, he would need a small fire. He looked over at the right, and the woodpile by the house had not been replaced either.

The captain saw a small stack of wood on the step of the kitchen building, but would not dare take any of that for his room lest he suffer the wrath of Mrs. Leyanova. That fuel was to keep the food fires burning, for soap and candle making, and hot water for baths and laundry. The Russian housekeeper was known to chase anyone caught in the act of pilfering wood from the kitchen supply with a rolling pin, which she whacked free as she gave tongue lashings in English _and_ Russian. To her, a fire always blazing in the kitchen was of paramount importance!

Hugh squinted off toward the back field and could see his men at the wood line, the sight of which relieved him. The men were often assigned farm chores in addition to their military duties while in camp, alongside the servants and slaves when need be. He could see three of his soldiers busily chopping and splitting logs. The officer trotted off toward them, and though he wasn't fond of that particular chore, he would lend a hand if it meant getting it done quicker.

Once at the woodpile, he greeted the privates. Seeing that they were near finished, he dismissed them to the well for a cool drink of water and quick break. Three wheelbarrows stood nearby, two of which were overflowing with small logs. Glad not to have to split or chop any wood, he spied the third cart near the woodpile, lonely and empty. The officer didn't even bother removing his jacket or cravat, noting that he could get the small vehicle loaded in a moment of two. He grabbed quickly for the logs and began stacking them into the cart. As he reached for another piece of wood, he felt a sharp stabbing pain in his left hand!

"Agh!" he screamed, pulling his arm back rapidly against his body. He immediately felt stinging and burning sensations.

The officer surveyed his left hand and saw two, telltale holes, puncture wounds in the outer part of the top of the hand. He knew immediately what had happened.

"Oh, bloody Hell!" he swore at his own complacency, knowing he had just been bitten by a snake. He hoped it was only one of the non poisonous field snakes which were common to the area. He soon spied the suspect, slithering out of the wood and onto the ground. It was about 4 feet long with a brown and tan hue. He cringed when he recognized it as one the men commonly encountered in the woods hiding off trail. It was a copperhead, very poisonous, and had crawled into the woodpile to hide and soak up some warmth. And Hugh Bordon was the unlucky person to have disturbed the viper.

The captain looked about and quickly found an axe laying over the wood in one of the wheelbarrows. He reached for it fast and swung it equally as quick. It came down on the snake, severing the head from its body. The back end of the brown reptile curled and thrashed about in its death throes, making Bordon close his eyes lest he puke.

"Damn it," he winced sharply through gritted teeth, knowing he was in trouble.

The redcoat commander tried to stay calm, knowing that the venom would traverse his body more slowly if he did. He consciously took a deep breath to relax himself as he looked about for the closest person. Everyone he saw seemed so far away and was busily going about chores, not noticing the captain. Hugh had a decision to make: the medical tent was just as far away as the main house was. So, he started walking, slowly, making his way back, hoping to cross someone's—_anyone's_—path soon. Not wanting to yell and excite himself any, he kept calm and quiet as he made the trek toward people.

Bordon's hand had begun to throb. He held it up close to his body during his walk back to the house, willing himself to remain placid. When it was apparent that the busy servants and soldiers had not noticed him, for it wasn't out of the ordinary for them to see him in the yard mingling and working with his men every day, the captain upped his pace a bit to a fast walk.

After a moment at that pace, he stopped, feeling dizzy and disoriented. He tried to clear the cobwebs from his head, then took two more steps and felt weak. His legs were unable to hold him anymore and he collapsed on the lawn near the back of the detached dining room.

The officer laid in the warm grass and tried to keep conscious although his eyelids were heavy and threatened to close. He heard people yelling as his mind continued to swim. His whole body felt hot, as if he was on fire.

"Captain Bordon!" yelled young Lieutenant Wentworth, the tall, gangly blond officer running toward the man with two privates in tow. The trio of dragoons knelt near the man. "What happened?"

Bordon, already losing his color and sweating, held his hand up with what little strength he had left. The redcoat officer had been amazed at how fast the poison had entered his system.

"Viper...bite...at the...woodpile," he gasped. "I killed it...It's there." Knowing that they would need to identify the snake, he rasped that much information out to his colleagues. One of the privates ran to the medical tent to get the surgeon whilst the other galloped to the woodpile to collect the dead serpent's body.

A small crowd had gathered about the prostrate Bordon upon the grass, including the doctor when the private returned carrying the back end of the snake. "Copperhead!" he yelled.

"Very well," the doctor said to the young medic that accompanied him. "Get as much of the grease out of it as you can save." The young orderly ran to a table in the hospital tent, knowing he had the job ahead of him of splitting the dead creature open to retrieve as much of its body fat, which wouldn't be much, as possible to apply to the wound.

Hugh Bordon saw the blurred faces of many above him, feeling the radiating heat of the gathered bodies there. His head swirled quickly as in a whirlpool, and then everything went black.

"Get him to his bed. Quickly!" the surgeon ordered. Three dragoons picked up their commander's solid, stocky body and bore him off the lawn and toward the house. They juggled and switched positions, adjusting as they negotiated the curves of the hallways and up the stairs to the second floor of the mansion.

Now in his quarters and still unconscious, he was laid on his bed. The privates helped strip his body down, then placed him under a sheet.

The legion doctor looked at Bordon's left hand, surveying the damage. It had swelled to nearly twice the regular size and the two puncture wounds oozed a sickening mixture of crimson blood and an occasional drop of yellow venom that hadn't made its way into his system yet. The bite was red and purple, starting to bruise, stretching the skin across his hand.

The surgeon went to work immediately, making two small slices at the edge of each fang hole to let some of the pressure off. He suctioned as much venom, which wasn't much for it had worked its way into the officer's body, as he could from the wound. As he finished, the orderly entered with a bowl containing the fat from the dead copperhead. The medic watched as the doctor rinsed and sponged the captain's wound, cleaning it with a mixture of water and vinegar.

The redcoat doctor soon cleared the way. He stood quietly, looking on with concern at the unconscious Bordon, as the young orderly squashed the viper grease between his fingers, then smeared it carefully onto the bite.

By that time, a large group of cavalrymen and plantation servants alike had gathered, crowding into the room and spilling out into the hallway. Colonel Tavington, had been enjoying the afternoon shade on the porch, lounging in a chair reading over reports filed by his officers. At having been alerted to what had happened, He thrust he papers into the private's hands and sprung from his chair. To him, Bordon was too valuable of an officer to lose. He took the steps nearly two at a time, soon rounding the landing on the second floor and spotting the throng of onlookers in the hall. The man pushed through the mass of green uniforms and servants drab to find his second in command flat on his back in bed and the legion surgeon over him.

The doctor looked up at the alarmed commander."It was a copperhead, sir," he informed apologetically. I'm afraid he will be down for a fortnight...if he survives."

"Bloody Hell," the redcoat officer swore under his breath. He surveyed his adjutant, whose color was already washed out and his hand bruising and swollen. His arm had begun to redden and bloat now, as well, from the poison working its way up the limb. Looking at the unconscious soldier's well defined chest, large as a barrel, and thick muscular shoulders reminded William that Hugh was strong. But he took little consolation in that.

He looked around the crowd gathered, and spotted his officers. "Wilkins! Wentworth! Kidwell! Come with me. I will speak to you immediately in my office."

"Yes, sir," the trio responded.

The colonel surveyed the room again and saw the matronly head of the house servants. "Mrs Leyanova," he barked, making the older lady bristle, "Assign Miss Burwell to sit with him. I don't want him waking up alone and exhausting himself."

"Of course, Colonel," the Russian woman answered. She turned in a swish to go find the girl, who was last seen heading toward the woods to the South of the house. The young lady would often take repose near the side of the brook that ran there.

/#/#/#/#/#/#/#/

Some time in the middle of the night, Betsy, who had fallen asleep in the rocking chair, was awakened by a heart wrenching moan. She jumped from the chair, looking at Captain Bordon, who was ashen in color and sweating profusely. The snake toxin, after twelve hours, had worked its way well into the redcoat officer's system, and the effects had him gripped firmly. His muscles were now seizing and he convulsed and shook, his head thrashing from side to side on the pillow. The officer's joints hurt and each breath seemed an effort. The twisted grimace on his face told her how unbearable the pain was.

"Oh!...ah!..." the poor man groaned. Tears ran from the side of his closed eyes down into his sweat matted hair.

His right arm flailed in the air and the girl managed to grab it, grasping his hand firmly.

She reached out with her other hand and stroked his restless head, trying to calm him. It had been hours since the opium laced tea had been spoon fed to him in an attempt to keep the pain at bay and the convulsions mild. The young lady knew it had worn off, for his seizures had not been this violent.

"Captain," she said. "Captain Bordon. This will pass." When he tried to jerk his arm from her, she reached up calmly and put her other hand on his, capturing his uninjured hand between both of hers and holding it firmly between them.

"When your body has calmed," she whispered, "I can give you some more Laudanum."

After a moment, he settled down, the convulsions passing. He was still enough for Miss Burwell to sponge the man a bit. She pulled the covers down and ran a damp rag over his bulky, muscled chest then trailed it up over his strong, well defined shoulders. The girl left the blankets down for the officer's skin to air dry, hoping that would cool his temperature a bit while she again dipped the linen in the bowl and wrung out the excess water. She sat forward in her chair and dabbed lightly over his face, mopping his sweaty forehead.

Betsy replaced the cloth in the porcelain bowl and sat rigid on the edge of her chair. The young lady took his hand again, and pulled it up to her own cheek, near tears. "Please, get well, captain," she whispered. "You're the only one who protects me and cares for me."

She kissed his hand as a tear escaped. "You just don't know," she whispered, her voice breaking. "I wish I could tell you."

The girl replaced his hand and arm back under the blanket, where she tucked it in loosely about his body. She sat back in the chair and gazed at him, a pained longing bringing a pink glow to her youthful cheeks, yet draining her life's energy and resolve with it, as well.

Miss Burwell sighed and looked up at the ceiling. Again, her eyes trailed downward, to gaze at the unconscious officer.

Then, she silently mouthed the words, "I love you."

/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/

The next day found Miss Burwell still at the man's side, with Colonel Tavington having stopped in to survey his adjutant's situation. The commandant leaned against the fireplace mantel with his arms crossed and wasn't surprised to find Bordon delirious with a high fever.

"Robbie...Sarah...," the ill officer cried out weakly as his head rolled from side to side upon his pillow. "Charge bayonet...watch your flank, men!"

Tavington scowled as he closely watched his sick second in command. "Even while deathly sick in bed, he's calling orders!" the dragoon colonel remarked.

The redcoat officer sighed in derision at the dismal situation as he came away from the fireplace to stand tall. After a last look, he marched to the door and opened it. From the doorway, he barked a quick order. "Miss Burwell, you will have the surgeon report to me after he has seen the captain today."

"Yes, sir," she answered in a subdued voice. She sighed as she heard the door shut quietly.

In a few minutes, the man had calmed and opened his eyes. "Drink," he murmured.

She poured a half cup of tea, then put a pinch of a brown powder and some white crystalline into it, stirring the mixture up. The dragoon officer focused himself on the tinkling sound the spoon made in the porcelain cup purposely, feeling near to becoming hazy and fainting again.

He calmed when he felt Betsy Burwell's soft hand slip under his neck. She gently crooked it and lifted his head as her other hand guided the cup to his lips. The redcoat sipped the warm tea slowly, in shallow gulps.

After laying his head back on the pillow, she watched him as he closed his eyes and slipped into rest. The girl studied his face as it relaxed and the man moved not. Then her eyes moved down to his chest, watching it intently as it seemed to rise and fall evenly; calmly.

With a quiet sigh she pulled the covers up around his shoulders. As she gazed another moment on his handsome face, she hoped he would have a restful sleep, instead of one filled with seizures and delirium.

/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/

Eight days passed, with the world and plantation going on around Miss Burwell and her charge, Captain Bordon. He had been seen by the redcoat surgeon, as well as the town doctor, Sweeney. Both men had to assure the impatient Colonel Tavington that it might be yet another week before his adjutant would be well—if he survived. The dragoon second in command was still fighting for his life.

Hugh Bordon awoke shivering, shaking himself awake. He looked at the chair to the right of the bed to notice Miss Burwell slumped in it and sleeping peacefully. The man snaked his hand out from under the counterpane and reached for the girl. He smiled slightly, glad to feel a trace of strength returning.

"Miss Burwell," was all he could whisper. The girl didn't rouse. He stretched his arm a little further and groaned, his joints stiff. The redcoat grasped her hand weakly.

He said nothing for a moment, just liking the touch of another human, and feeling secure with that. His mind was foggy, but he recalled her hand, this hand that he now held, touching his feverish head and body gently. He remembered the young lady's hand holding his firmly, as if trying to still him. _Had she been here this whole time_, _he wondered?_

He looked at her pretty, slumbering face. His thumb weakly stroked the softness of her hand. The tip of it outlined the knuckles and joints, as the pad of it wisped over her warm skin.

"Missy," he murmured, shaking her hand nearly imperceptibly.

"Huh...hmmm?" the girl roused, immediately sitting forward in her rocking chair, obvious alarm sketched in her features. She shook her head. "Captain? What can I do?!"

She craned her body forward, getting close enough to hear his strained voice. "Have you been here this whole time?" He still held her hand.

"Yes, mostly," she replied. "The servants have relieved me from time to time, but Colonel Tavington assigned me the task of being your nurse."

"I'm thirsty," said Bordon, closing his eyes for a moment.

Miss Burwell poured just a bit of cold water. Hooking her hand beneath his neck, she lifted his head to where his lips met the cup. The officer took two slow sips, then sank back into the pillow.

Betsy watched him as he relaxed, then she spoke. "Sir, your surgeon left orders for you to drink some brandy. He thinks it would be good for you to sweat some more."

"I may have been in the ether these last few days, but I recollect sweating some already, " he protested.

The young lady said nothing, frowning as she reached for the small liquor bottle. The girl understood how he felt, having had to sweat out a few Malarial fevers in her own short lifetime.

She helped him up again, this time he took the bottle in his weakened hand and took a couple of sips, then made a face. He immediately felt sick to his stomach. "I don't think I will be able to keep that down." Within a moment of his declaration, his stomach burned and hitched.

"I'm going to be sick," he said, straining to turn his stocky body onto his side.

Quick thinking Betsy grabbed the porcelain basin and pushed it under the man's face. He gurgled and wretched into the thing as she steadied him, her hand on his shoulder helping to keep him on his side.

He had barely a bit of broth in his system, and his vomit was clear fluid. The redcoat rolled back onto his side, groaning in discomfort as he did, his muscles and joints stiff and sore.

Then he started to shiver.

"I'm...so...c...c...cold," he stammered, trembling beneath the sheet.

The brandy, supposed to make his sweat, didn't work. Betsy rose from her chair. "I'll fetch the doctor."

The sick captain had a surge of sudden strength, strong enough to reach up and grab her hand. Betsy was alarmed at how hot his hand felt amidst his being cold.

"No. Don't go," he begged, his eyes glassy and full of fear. "Please."

"Very well," she complied. Betsy lightly pulled her hand from his in order to stretch to the footboard, over which a thick quilt was folded. Laying it over one arm, she pulled the bedspread up to Bordon's chin, then spread the additional coverlet over the bed. She tucked the blankets in tightly around him, bundling as much escaping body heat around him as she could.

The girl then wrung the water from the rag in the basin and began sponging the man. His forehead and face were hot to the touch though he shivered still under the counterpane.

"This isn't what I envisioned for myself," he ground out with much effort through chattering teeth.

"Sir?"

"I would rather die on the battlefield than in bed of a snake bite," whispered Hugh.

"Why is one death more noble than another," Betsy queried as she slumped down into the chair again.

"Because I am a soldier," he answered, low and shaky. "I am a commander of soldiers. A battle death is more honorable than the bite of a viper."

Miss Burwell felt herself starting to tear up, and her throat tighten as she fought back tears. This strong man—military commander—who lay before, really thought he might die, and it frightened her. The girl didn't want him to pass. She wanted him to continue to protect her. And, she hoped that one day, he might realize her feelings for him. Feelings that she wasn't supposed to have, being betrothed to another man.

She suddenly wanted to blurt out her unrequited love and her longings. She needed him to know before he died. The words caught in her throat. She could say nothing.

Captain Bordon saw her eyes, watery, near to spilling over. He did not want her to burst into tears on his behalf. He had not the strength to comfort her.

"Don't," he beseeched. "I did not mean to scare you. I will be fine."

"Yes, I know," she acknowledged with a slight shake of her head and a forced smile.

/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/

"Get up, Miss Burwell!"

The girl roused from sleep at the loud banging on her door. She raised up on her elbows and looked about, trying to shake the sleep from her mind.

"Right now, miss!" with more heavy knocking on her door. "Colonel Tavington wishes to see you downstairs immediately!"

Pushing herself up to sitting, the girl tried to recognize the voice. She could not, only guessing that it was one of the cavalry privates.

Betsy had been in Captain Bordon's room at his bedside until near 4 in the morning. She was relieved by Nicholas, a young medic in training. And she was grateful to go to her own room, stretch out and sleep in her own comfy bed, instead of falling asleep slumped in a wooden rocking chair as had been her cause for days and days.

As she rose from her bed, she looked at the clock on the mantel and noticed it was 10 in the morning. She was glad to have had 6 hours of good sleep. She stretched and once again there was more infernal pounding on her door.

"NOW, Miss Burwell! Colonel's orders!"

She rolled her eyes and answered , "Yes! I will be right there." The girl wondered what was so urgent that she didn't even have time to get into proper dress.

The young lady reached for her robe, which was laid over the back of a chair. She pulled it on and tied it as she walked toward the window. Once there, she looked out over the farm, surveying the morning situation as she wrapped her hair in a quick, sloppy bun at the back of her head.

Outside on the green it looked as usual. The servants and slaves were busy going about their daily tasks. The dragoons were milling or walking about. And she saw a delivery wagon from the mercantile in town. Unloading it was young Johnny Lander, from town, who had stayed behind, instead of joining his father and older brother in the militia. He helped his mother run the farm, and worked as a delivery driver for Mr. Atterson's store for extra money.

She opened the door. "Where is the colonel?" she asked.

"On the front lawn, miss."

"Very well," she replied, and headed down the hallway. At the bottom of the stairs, she hesitated in the vestibule at the front door. The house seemed awfully quiet. As she tightened the belt of her robe, she looked about for the house servants and saw none. Shrugging her shoulders, she exited the house.

As she ascended the grand steps from the veranda, she noticed the house servants gathered at the side of the lawn with two of the legion privates near them, as if herding them about. She immediately suspected that something was wrong.

The girl strode a few yards to where Colonel Tavington, Lieutenant Wentworth and Private Danning stood. She could tell by the glower on the redcoat commander's face that he was perturbed about something. The trio of officers formed a loose circle about the same number of weapons laying in the grass.

"You wanted to see me?" she asked timidly, as the redcoats opened rank to let her into their midst.

"Do you recognize those?" Tavington enquired in a sharp bark, one enough to make the girl bristle.

At their feet lay a pistol, a musket, and a sword in its sheath. Puzzled, Betsy bent down to pick up the saber. With one hand on the hilt and the other palming the cover, she tried to pull it out, only to see that the weapon was rusted into the scabbard. She brought the handle close to her face, where she saw the faint outline of 3 initials etched into the metal of the pommel. HLB...for Harry Larsen Burwell. It was one of her father's old weapons. She replaced the cutlass on the lawn and picked up the pistol, noticing the same three initials carved into the wooden handle. Betsy crouched to return the gun to the ground. Staying there, she eyed the handle of the dull, rusty musket and again, saw that it also belonged to her father.

She rose to her feet again and looked quizzically at Colonel Tavington. The scowl of anger was still on his face making her take a half step backwards. "They are my father's," she answered in a low, unsure voice.

"Yes. My men found them this morning," he snarled, "hidden in a corner of the woodshed."

His tone was accusatory, which stunned and frightened the girl. She was confused, as well. The first days on the dragoon's billet last summer, she had walked the property with Captain Bordon, revealing all hidden weapons and surplus stores.

"That can't be!" she exclaimed. "I gave up all the hidden guns to Captain Bordon last summer, when we returned here."

The girl looked about in panic. She saw that more of her slaves and servants had gathered and were milling about on the lawn, staring in disbelief at the show before them.

"This is contraband, Miss Burwell!" the colonel accused. "You were to have surrendered all weapons to Captain Bordon months ago!"

"I did!" she shot back in defense, her voice cracking. "I don't know how—"

"You fired a weapon at me that you had hidden in the office," he recounted. "How am I to know what these are for? That you won't use them on my men. That you are stockpiling for the rebels."

"No! NO!" she cried, shaking her head in disbelief, "That's not how it is." She stepped backwards, wishing she could run. The girl knew that nothing good would come of this.

After another inch backwards, Private Gwynne seized her, his strong hands curled around her elbows. She was not allowed another step away.

"You have been given a decent amount of freedom here," Tavington said, his eyes narrowed. "I'm beginning to regret that decision."

Betsy was speechless, not knowing what to say or do. After a moment under the tall commander's glare, he spoke. "Take her to the tree. Bind her."

With that, Gwynne jerked her elbow, pulling her with him. She soon found Private Wells on her right, gripping her arm.

"No! Don't! Please!" she screamed as the two dragoon privates hustled her along. She looked behind her to see the trio of Lieutenant Wentworth, Tavington, and Private Danning following them. In front of her was the large oak tree where stood Private Tracy, who was quickly unraveling a length of rope. Beside him was Sergeant Ryder, who was unraveling his long whip from his belt.

Miss Burwell panicked when she saw this. She had seen a handful of infantry and cavalry soldiers flogged there on occasion. And, she had come to realize over the months that Ryder was the man charged by the colonel to administer corporal punishment to wayward soldiers.

She called to her servants, in the crowd as she passed them by. "Help me! Please!"

Mr. Waldron, incensed at what was going on, seemed to lead a line of male servants moving forward to protest. "You can't do this to her, colonel! She's just a girl!"

"And a treacherous one at that!" Tavington retorted as the walk to the tree continued.

"What makes you so certain that she hid those weapons?" Mr. Hantz asked in his strong Bavarian accent.

"Did you hide them?" Tavington shot back, turning the question about.

"No! But why are you so certain that _she_ did?"

"I'm not," replied the colonel. "But she is the head of this farm at present, so she will receive the punishment."

Waldron bolted at that moment, and landed squarely in front of the Tavington and his officers. The whole entourage stopped their trek. Betsy looked back gratefully at her stalwart farm manager.

"Colonel, I will take her place," offered Waldron. "I will accept the punishment in her stead."

"I will take her beating," Mr. Hantz volunteered as well. There were then a ringing of several other male voices, her servants, each offering their hides in place of hers. Betsy was so moved, that tears rolled down her face, and she fell to her knees.

"Well, you are all fine examples of gentlemen amongst the Colonials," the dragoon leader stated, "and I am sure your mistress is grateful. But this is something she herself must receive!"

With that, Gwynne and Wells jerked Betsy back up to her feet. The march toward the tree continued on, and the girl's mind tripped over the confusion within.

_Why? Why is this happening? I am usually asked more questions. But that is usually at Captain Bordon's request. If only he were here. He has been feeling better. Surely someone has apprised him of this. My God, where is he?! He would stop this, I know he would, she thought. _Even though she knew better than to hope so much on that. That he had not been able to curb his commander on a few occasions and admitted as much to the girl.

Miss Burwell frantically scanned the crowd to both sides of her, searching for his face, hoping that he had been well enough to come down to find out about the commotion. _Please captain! Please help me she screamed inside her head._

When they arrived at the tree, the sergeant untied the belt of her robe and removed it from her body, first one arm, and then the other as Gwynne and Wells alternated sides. The girl, immediately flushed in embarrassment, feeling stark naked, was clad only in her thin nightgown as a barrier between her and the world. It was only a small consolation that they didn't strip her back bare.

Betsy was then pushed against the tree and made to hug it, the front of her body against it leaving her back open as a clear target. _This can't be happening! I'm having a nightmare! Wake up, Betsy! Wake up!_

She felt the rope encircle her wrists then twisted firmly to bind her hands tightly. The length was pulled hard, securing her body flush to the tree. She could feel the rough, bumpy bark against her, which was already warming to the morning sun, but of no comfort to the young woman.

Once secured there, her fingers twitched and flailed, trying to find something to hold onto. Private Wells, seeing this, mercifully took both her hands and made her fists to wrap around the rope. He had seen enough floggings to know that the victim often looked for something to hold tight to, needing to brace themselves.

At this time, Miss Polly Callon, the 13 year old indentured servant, emerged from the privy. The maid knew nothing of what was going on. She looked about the back yard and fields and saw they were absent servants, slaves, and soldiers. The youngster had worked there long enough to know that daily chores were only interrupted for meetings. The girl, dreading another gathering of such, crept to the bushes near the house, slid her thin body in behind them and stole around unseen to the front corner of the building. Her mouth dropped open when she saw Miss Burwell stripped to her chemise and tied at the lashing tree.

Colonel Tavington whispered to Wentworth, and the junior officer trotted away. He found the young delivery driver from town, Johnny Lander, and pulled the poor lad away from his wagon. The lieutenant dragged the teenage boy over and made him to stand beside the furious farm overseer Waldron.

"Colonel Tavington wishes you to remain as witness to the chastisement," Wentworth ordered sharply.

The confused boy looked at Jake Waldron, who gave him a look of warning and apology. Warning him not to leave lest he suffer, and sorry that the teen had to witness the administration of a penalty.

William Tavington turned and faced the throng. "Let it be known, that treason has consequence. Miss Burwell has hidden weapons upon this property, after she was ordered months ago to give them up to us," he shouted to the hushed, stunned crowd. All the while the sergeant was readying his whip, loosening his arm up.

Betsy clamped her eyes shut and cried. She kept a tight hold on the rope, and wished for some kind of leniency or reprieve.

Then, the colonel turned to face the Lander boy from the village. "Boy! You are to go back to the town and tell all what you see here today. Tell them that his Majesty King George's army does not abide treason!"

Polly the young maid was frozen in her hiding place beside the house, gripped and afraid of every word the dragoon commandant uttered. She found the courage finally to slip back to the rear of the house stealthily. Quietly, she entered the abode. Once there, she tore away up the stairs, not caring if her feet made noise on the steps or not.

At the second floor, she barged into the room of the ailing dragoon second in command, the door of which was open. Private Rainey sat in the chair next to the officer's bed.

"Please! The mistress needs Captain Bordon immediately!" she shouted in obvious alarm.


	32. Chapter 31: Stand In Judgment

Hi All. I am putting this up in a hurry and edited and proofed it equally as fast. I will go thru tomorrow and fix errors when I have a chance. Thanks for staying with the story for so long. I appreciate it!

JScorpio..Indianapolis, Indiana, USA

Chapter 31: Stand In Judgment

Private Rainey jumped from his chair at the same time he shushed the girl. Captain Bordon was heavily sedated and he snored softly in his bed.

"The captain needs his rest," the private replied. "I doubt I could wake him anyway, he is so full of Valerian!"

"Please! Miss Burwell is in trouble!" she cried as she moved toward the bed.

Rainey caught the girl, his hands gripping her elbows, afraid she would disturb the recuperating officer. He tried to speak some sense into the hysterical housemaid. "What about Colonel Tavington? Can't he help her?"

"No! She's in trouble with _him_!" Polly shrieked as she pulled the young dragoon toward the window. She pointed out the window toward the large tree where her mistress was tied. "He's having her flogged! Captain Bordon could stop it!"

"Miss, I don't know what she has done to be punished," he began, "but even the captain can't talk the colonel out of something he has his mind set to do."

The two, the maid and the private, stood quietly a moment at the window, looking amazed at the sight out on the lawn. The crowd outside seemed equally as still and tense.

In the yard where it was all unfolding, all assembled were too scared or lost in their own disbelief to even be able to move or shout another protest.

"Sergeant," Tavington began as the man stood at attention, "Six lashes, please. Two for each weapon found."

Betsy began sobbing as she tucked her chin down to her neck. "No, oh God no," she wept. "This _can't_ be!" And then she turned her already tearstained face upwards, into the new foliage of green leaves, imagining that if the Lord could be anywhere, he would be hiding amongst the greenery. "God, please, bring Captain Bordon to my aid!"

SNAP!

Her body shook, startled at just how loud the crack of the whip was as she heard the sergeant loosening his arm up. She made the mistake of looking over her shoulder, back at the man, as he snapped the leather instrument again. The girl instantly wanted to vomit as she saw the strength this man had. The whip hit the ground with a loud thud, throwing up a small cloud of dust and severed blades of grass with it.

Miss Burwell turned her head back into the tree, the bark of it scraping her scalp and forehead. She again buried her face, tucking her head down as far as it would go. Then her hands took a stronger grip on the ropes. The young woman scrunched her eyes shut hard, squeezing hot tears out as she did. She willed herself to stay strong, chanting inside her head that it would be over quickly.

Then, she braced herself for the blows, steeling her heart as her body became rigid, hoping it would protect her somehow. She thought of stories of stoic men that didn't scream at the cut of the lash, and hoped she would not cry out either.

Next she heard the whip as it sliced sharply through the air. It cut across her middle back hard, forcing her eyes wide open and tearing a horrid scream from her throat. The blow was so strong that it moved Betsy's body sideways, or so she thought. Maybe that was her body reacting on its own, urging its own movement. Instantly her knees weakened, and all that held her up was her own body being so tightly bound against the mighty oak.

Waves of pain seemed to distort her eyesight and she was incredulous as to how much it hurt. Her face reddened and broke into an immediate sweat, as she felt her insides twist and rumble.

Then came the second lash, landing at the top of her back just under her shoulders. It was so hard it whipped her body forward, and the momentum caused it to recoil backwards. Again she screamed loudly, obvious that tears of pain were mixed into it.

The third lash landed at the juncture of her back to her hips, cutting across her waistline, where a dress would lay snugly. The girl cried out again, pleading silently for it to end. What she thought would be over fast, seemed to drag as the time stood still.

Up in the captain's room, Private Rainey himself flinched with each crack of the whip. Polly Callon, the poor little maid, had turned her back to the window and was crying into her hands. "I tried, Miss Burwell, I tried!" she blubbered.

The fourth lash seemed the hardest, and landed long from her left hip, crossing her back diagonally up to her right shoulder. Private Wells, from his stance near the tree, saw the death grip the girl had on the rope that ran between her bound hands. Her knuckles were white and strained. Her screams of pain tore unabashed from her throat. Her stomach lurched and Miss Burwell soon lost the contents of it, throwing up. The vomit ran down the tree, her face, and whatever egress points of space it could find between her body and the bark.

Another snap and the leather sliced a clear line across the middle of her back. She cried out again, as her eyes went blurry, with tears or vertigo, she wasn't sure which. Her head spun, and she gave into the dizziness.

Young Johnny Lander, the driver of the wagon for Atterson's Mercantile, watched intently, still in disbelief at sight before him. He had never seen anyone lashed before—especially not a woman; or a girl, rather. He felt sick to his stomach, and his pallor had noticeably turned green. Jake Waldron put his strong hand on the lad's arm, holding him up lest he faint at the sickening sight.

The commander's words rang in the boy's brain: to tell all of what he saw there today. And by God, he would have a harrowing tale to tell.

Mr. Hantz, close enough to the scourging tree, saw that the clean, thin read lines that had appeared on the girl's thin, white shift, were no longer defined. The blood had begun to feather into the minute channels of the fabric. The German farmhand had originally thought that the young lady's night gown might just be the one saving grace, keeping the wounds from being so bad, and affording some kind of protection to her. He realized now that all it did was shield her modesty of having to show a bare back to the crowd. It was not much of a barrier between the gibbet and the skin. He closed his eyes, knowing the girl's porcelain skin would now be marred by scars of the scourge.

The sixth flog caught some of the already broken skin, landing on parts of two fresh wounds. Betsy had been beyond crying out by this point, her voice having fled her beaten body, or caught within it. She gave in to dizziness and waves of pain and heat about her and fainted.

"That was six, sir," the sergeant called.

"Yes," Colonel Tavington agreed. "Gwynne, Wells, untie her. Take her to her chambers."

As they unbound the unconscious girl from the tree, Mr. Waldron stepped forward, close enough to touch her. "I'll take her," he said in a low, thoroughly defeated voice. Her body finally slipped free of the oak and slid down into his arms. The loyal farm overseer walked sullenly toward the house, the broken body of the girl cradled against his chest.

Polly saw the man coming toward the building and went to prepare the young lady's bed. Private Rainey came away from the window to stand at the foot of the bed. He closed his eyes and shook his head at his superior officer.

Captain Bordon had slept through Miss Burwell's punishment with nary a stir.

/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/

Hugh Bordon opened his eyes slowly, hearing a light tapping noise as he came out of his sleep. He looked over to the desk in his room where the sound emanated from. When the blurriness dissipated, he saw young Private Rainey seated there, absently rolling dice, as if trying to discern some method to the randomness of the roll.

The dragoon adjutant cleared his throat, and tried to work his arms. He found that he was as weak as a shaky legged calf. The young private stood up and galloped around the desk to the immediate side of his commander, seeing the trouble the officer was having in shifting himself in bed.

"Let me help you, sir," he said as he reached Bordon's side. His hands gripped one of the captain's beefy biceps and steadied him as he sat up in bed.

"You know that the Devil throws dice in Hell," the redcoat officer scolded in a raspy voice.

"Beg your pardon, sir, but I have seen you gambling upon occasion," Rainey retorted as he adjusted the pillow of his leader.

"Damn. I thought that was a secret," quipped the captain as he shifted his sore body back to recline on the pillow.

"How are you feeling now, sir?"

"Tired and sickly," replied Bordon.

"Doctor Collester was in not long ago to check your wound," the private informed, "He was pleased. The swelling and discoloration have decreased immensely."

"Oh," Bordon said as he looked at the bandage on his left hand, obscuring the supposed healing from view. The captain reached for the glass of water sitting on the nightstand. After drinking it down quickly, he spoke.

"Where is Miss Burwell? She has been my constant nurse."

Rainey, who was amidst pouring some more water from the pitcher for his ailing commander, said nothing. He finished the task and spoke as he replaced the glass on the stand.

The private was troubled and wondered how to break the news to his captain. He knew the man was upset that he was unable to fulfill his duties, but he suspected that Bordon would be agitated as well in finding out about the plight of Miss Burwell. All the residents and billeted cavalrymen had seen Bordon's interest in the girl; how he protected her. And the captor and captive often spent time in company together.

"Uh, sir, she has taken to her bed," he answered cautiously.

"Is she sick? Was there an accident?" Bordon sat forward painfully, now worried for his charge.

Rainey said nothing, nearly afraid to. His silence brought irritation from Bordon.

"Private?!"

He shook his head and looked down, knowing it would pain the second in command to hear the news.

"She was punished, captain," Rainey informed. "The Colonel had her flogged."

"Flogged?!" asked Bordon, his weakened voice suddenly finding some strength. "Why?"

"Weapons were discovered in the woodshed, obviously hidden."

"That can't be," the captain refuted. "She gave up all the hidden weapons upon my request last summer. She showed me _all_ the hiding places."

Burly Hugh Bordon was stirring in his bed, trying to get up. The private was doing his best to keep the man calm. "She would not be hiding contraband now," the captain blurted. "She knows the price!"

"Sir-"

"When did this happen?' the agitated officer interrupted.

"This morning," Rainey answered plaintively.

Bordon heaved a hefty sigh and sunk back against the pillow, looking as if someone had knocked the wind out of him. His mind whirled in circles, unsure what to think. _Why wasn't I awoken and consulted? Why would Tavington do this? Is she hiding contraband? What was she planning? She trusts me and I trust her. Why would she break my confidence? She is treated well. I protect her. Why would she do this? _

The officer knew what he needed to do and had to do it immediately. He carefully twisted his stiff body, pushing back the covers as he did. His legs trailed to the edge of the bed. "Help me up, Rainey," he groaned.

"You should rest, sir," the private said, trying to prevent the officer from rising.

"No. I need to be up walking a bit, anyway," Bordon disagreed, "and now is as good of time as any."

He looked down to realize he was in only his light, linen drawers. The private gripped the captain's biceps, helping him to a standing position. Bordon winced as he did.

Rainey let go of one arm, then the other, letting his commander stand there a moment to get his bearings. Hugh fought a moment of vertigo after standing for the first time in days. The redcoat officer soon steadied.

"In the bureau there," Bordon pointed, "Please get me a pair of pants."

The private complied. As Rainey fetched the trousers, Bordon turned slightly to where he stood in front of the chamber pot on the floor. The dragoon pissed into the thing, then sat back on the bed. He slowly pulled the pair of dark blue woolen breeches on over his muscular legs.

He stood again, this time by himself. Bordon caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. His face looked drawn a bit, with thick stubble over his jaw. He knew he had to have lost a bit of weight. Refusing a shirt, he let Rainey drape a blanket over his shoulders, which he pulled around him to cover his bare chest.

With the private's help, he walked from his room, his bare feet padding softly on the wooden floor. The redcoat officer shuffled slowly to Miss Burwell's chambers, where he met a closed door.

Rainey blanched, knowing there may be trouble within the room However, the youjng soldier also understood that his recuperating and distraught charge needed to see and question the girl.

After the officer knocked, the private cautiously turned the knob. He was surprised to find the door unlocked. He helped the dragoon leader through the door as the man spoke.

"Miss Burwell?" asked Bordon weakly.

The two redcoats beheld the sight of the Burwell girl laying prone on her bed, softly crying into her pillow. Myriam, the pretty quadroon servant, and middle aged housemaid Pansy tended to her. The sour tang of vinegar combined with the sweet, thick smell of fresh butter permeated the air of the small room.

"Please leave!" Pansy insisted as she rose to her feet. She took a defensive stance, looking at the two redcoats invading the poor girl's only safe sanctum. "She doesn't want to see ANY of you lobsters right now!"

"I will be surprised if she has a civil word for any of you ever again after the severity of your commander!" Myriam spat with a scowl from where she sat wringing out a cloth.

"OUT! NOW!" Bordon ground out. "I am not going to hurt the young lady, you have my word. I have questions for her."

The two housemaids rose, huffing indignantly as they pressed past the two redcoats. At the door, Rainey turned to exit with them.

"No, Private," the captain requested, "Stay there. You will witness what is said here." He then motioned for the young cavalryman to shut the door, which he pushed closed quietly.

Bordon sat down in the chair next to the bed as the private leaned back against the edge of the girl's desk.

"May I examine your wounds," asked Bordon in a low voice.

"Do whatever you must," Betsy sobbed, then turned her face back into the pillow.

The captain leaned over and slowly, carefully peeled back the thin, vinegar and water laced cloth that covered the young woman's back. Betsy winced and shook when the fresh air of the room teased at the injuries, even though they were smeared with butter as a protective emollient.

"Sorry," Bordon apologized.

He looked at her back without emotion, then shut his eyes for a moment, wishing that he wasn't viewing the spectacle. The slashes, six in all, crisscrossed her back, and only two intersected, attesting to the skill of the sergeant with his whip. The long slices were red and open, but the bleeding had been arrested. The skin in between the injuries was pink and swelling, fighting back against the pain. To him, they didn't look deep—at least not as heavy handed as on some of the men and slaves' backs that he had seen in the past. Maybe the sergeant had secretly taken some pity and held back the full force of the whip, Hugh surmised inwardly. Bordon judged that the lacerations may close by themselves in a couple of days and might not even leave scars.

The officer dipped the cloth in the basin next to the bed, tinged straw colored from the vinegar, rung it out, then laid it gently back on top of the girl's back. She stifled a whimper into her pillow.

Careful not to undermine his superior officer, Captain Bordon kept his tone even and calm. Even though he disagreed with some of the rash things that Tavington did, they were on the same side, both fighting for the Crown, so he knew he must keep a united front with his commander.

His words were emotionless and cautious. "Now, missy, I'm going to ask you some questions."

She turned her head on the pillow to look at him. Her eyes were nearly swollen shut from prolonged crying. "And you will answer me truthfully. Do you understand?"

Betsy nodded her head slightly, saying nothing. She wished these men weren't here. The girl wanted nothing more than to lick her wounds in private.

"Why were you lashed?"

"Weapons were found," she sniffled. "In the corner of the woodshed."

"I thought you surrendered all hidden weapons to me last summer when we first arrived," asked Hugh.

"I _did_," she insisted tearfully. "I showed you all the hiding places."

Hugh shifted uncomfortably on the chair, not used to sitting after being on his back for so many days in his bed. "Miss Burwell, I am going to ask you something hard," he warned, "and you are to tell me the absolute truth, even if it threatens trouble. I promise you that I will deal fairly with those implicated."

The baleful girl shook her head again.

"Have you, or any of your servants, been stockpiling weapons again to help the rebel cause?"

"No," she wailed. "As I told you months ago, weapons were hidden around the farm and in the house in case of Indian attacks, at first, and then later, in defense against your army."

"Then why were these found?" Bordon was confounded.

"I don't know," she cried. "Maybe I forgot they were there. They were all rusted and dirty. I don't think they could have been used at all. They wouldn't have been much defense against savages and certainly wouldn't have helped the rebels."

"Thank you for your cooperation, Miss Burwell." He pushed the chair back and stood up stiffly, adjusting the blanket again about his shoulders.

"I had hoped you would intervene," she whispered sorrowfully, her eyes full of tears.

The sight of her eyes and face, young and innocent, marred with tears, and her plaintive words, revealing that she trusted him to help her, tore at his heart. What excuse could he give her that would ease her suffering?

Again, without apology and saying nothing to subvert his commander's decision and actions, he kept his actions and words minimal, and cold. "I wasn't apprised of the situation. The doctor bade me to recover."

The girl buried her face in her pillow again, weeping subdued by the material. "Private," the captain said. Young Rainey stood up straight and followed Bordon to the doorway.

The two redcoats opened the door to find servants Pansy and Myriam pacing the hallway. The two women pushed past the dragoons and noisily closed the door behind them, anxious to shut out the enemy and attend their ailing mistress. The captain blew out a sigh at the maids' over reacting.

"Rainey, do you know where the confiscated weapons ended up?" Bordon assumed they were probably locked up in the main office downstairs.

"I believe they were taken to the Colonel's quarters," the young man answered.

"Oh," Bordon replied. "Is the colonel on duty this afternoon?"

"No sir, Captain Wilkins is."

Bordon began to walk slowly down the hall, toward the large room, the former bedroom of Colonel and the late Mrs. Katy Burwell, which was now Tavington's bedchambers. "Do you know where the Colonel is?"

Luckily for Rainey, Tavington had peaked in earlier, after all the commotion, on his recuperating second in command. He had informed the private at that time that Wilkins was in command for the remainder of the day and evening. The private had seen from Bordon's window, the Colonel strolling across the green shortly afterwards, unloosening his cravat as he did. Walking in the general direction of the follower's tents, Rainey assumed that the dragoon leader was going to spend the rest of the day in the arms of his favorite whore, Minnie. "In Miss Fortner's tent, I think."

"Ah, good," Captain Bordon murmured. Rainey continued on his heels, and soon they were at the end of the hallway, outside of Tavington's chambers.

Bordon entered after knocking and receiving no answer. A wide eyed Rainey followed him into the cavalry commander's room.

"Rainey, you are my witness that I am doing nothing untoward in our leader's quarters," he said.

"Yes sir."

The dragoon second in command spotted three old and dirty weapons in the corner of the room. "Ah, this must be the contraband. And you are going to examine it with me," Hugh requested as he moved across the room.

They laid the weapons out on Colonel Tavington's neatly made bed to survey them. The items: an old musket, a sword and a pistol lay there before them, and Private Rainey let out a loud guffaw.

The younger man spoke, amused at the sight before him and trying to keep his laughter under control. "Begging your pardon, sir, but one would have to be close enough to hit someone over the head or rack up their balls for these to be of any effect!"

"I appreciate your blunt honesty," replied Bordon dryly as he picked up the pistol. He looked it over, pulled back the hammer and found it not working. The captain replaced it on the bed as he watched Rainey studying the musket and the red speckles all over the metal parts.

"What a piece of junk," Rainey blurted out as he stared down the inside of the long gun. "There must be just as much rust on the inside of the barrel as on the outside of it."

The soldier laid the musket back on the bed, then received the saber that his superior officer handed him. Knowing that he didn't have the strength yet, Bordon asked, "Please pull the sword out. I want to see its condition."

The young, strong, private made two attempts and could not pull the weapon from its scabbard. "I can't get it out; it's rusted into it!"

Bordon had seen enough. He motioned for Private Rainey to collect the weapons and place them back into the corner.

After Private Rainey escorted the ailing captain back to his room, Hugh dismissed him at the door. The young soldier had spent the better part of his day sitting with his commander, and Bordon knew Rainey could make better use of his on duty time down amongst his fellow dragoons. And Hugh was well enough to make due on his own for now. And he wanted, or rather preferred, to be alone. The redcoat officer had the keen desire to process what he had seen and heard in the last few moments, wanting to sort out the confusion.

Hugh laid his body, joints still sore and stiff from the toxin that had filled him days earlier, on his bed. Resting his head upon his arm on the pillow, he looked up thoughtfully at the ceiling.

The officer had seen things for himself. The weapons found were practically good for nothing; rusty and malfunctioning. They plainly hadn't been maintained, as if they were indeed forgotten about, as Miss Burwell surmised. Clearly Colonel Tavington must have noticed this, as well. If so, then why was he so harsh with the girl? _I wouldn't have had her flogged for that...maybe confined to quarters or some freedom taken away, he whispered to himself._

Bordon was tired from being on his feet for only moments. He needed more rest. But he resolved to talk with William about this situation later, after the man returned from his tumble in the bed sheets of Miss Minnie Fortner. The dragoon leader would be in a good mood after that.

/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/

It was sunset as Hugh Bordon found himself staring at his tray of untouched food before him. The officer still wasn't fit enough to sit at the table, with his fellow officers, eat solid food, drink spirits, and make coherent conversation. The servants dutifully brought his food to his room still. He had indeed taken a few spoonfuls of soup and a bite of bread, but that was all he could manage, still having hardly any appetite.

Instead, he decided to venture out of his room, knowing he needed to gain some strength back, and make a trip downstairs. Before he did, pulled one of his white shirts over his head, not buttoning it but leaving it hanging loose. He did though, take an extra minute to brush his long, ginger hair and tie it back loosely, not bothering with the tight braid plait that he would have if he were on duty.

The captain took his time, descending the staircase slowly, trying to remind his slack leg muscles how to do it after having been in bed for a fortnight. With feet solidly on the first floor, he heard women's voices coming from the indoor kitchen, and wisely decided to avoid going the direction lest he be hailed with a round of feminine scolding for being out of bed. Instead, his bare feet padded quietly down the hallway to the left, moving his steadily toward the office. He found himself winded after the short journey, but was relieved to see fresh candlelight playing against the fading twilight from outside on the wall.

The office door was open. Bordon looked inside and found Colonel Tavington at the large desk, looking over paperwork with a bored look on his face. The captain knocked on the door frame.

The colonel looked up immediately at the sound of the knock. His eyebrows raised and a smile crossed his face. For an instant, Hugh wasn't sure if his commander was genuinely happy to see him, or just relieved to be saved from administrative tedium.

"Ah, Bordon. Tis good to see you up."

"Yes," the adjutant replied wearily.

"Shouldn't you be resting?"

"I'm feeling better," Bordon answered. "Doctor said I could start standing and walking about for short periods. As much as I could take."

"Splendid," Tavington exclaimed. While the absence of his regular second in command had been a good teaching time for Wilkins and Wentworth, that had been the only positive thing about it. To William, Bordon was a huge asset, his diplomatic skills beyond reproach and with his mastery of area intelligence, the officer could not be replaced.

"Have you time for a word, sir?"

"Certainly. Come in," said the colonel as he extended his hand, motioning toward the chair directly in front of the desk.

Hugh shut the door behind him and was relieved to sit down. The short journey down the stairs from his second floor room to the farthest and last room on the first floor had made him weak. The ailing dragoon pulled the blanket tightly about his shirt covered torso.

The colonel folded his hands together and rested them atop the papers on his desk. He looked intently at his aide-de-camp, wondering what the matter was. "What's the trouble, captain?"

He hesitated before he spoke. Speaking slowly, he began. "Um...I hear that Miss Burwell was flogged this morning."

"Yes," he answered, a bit of annoyance showing in his countenance. "I gave instructions that you weren't to be bothered with it while recovering."

"I wasn't, colonel," he reassured, "but I heard of it when I awoke. Could I inquire as to the details surrounding the situation?"

"Of course. Private Danning was stacking wood in the woodshed, and found the weapons stashed in a corner, under a small tarp."

"She surrendered the contraband to me last summer," Bordon reminded, "on her word. I believed her."

"Well obviously she lied," the colonel disagreed as he rose slowly from his seat. He took a step out from his desk and faced the wall, his back to his adjutant. "Perhaps her servants stashed them there without her knowledge, but no one came forward."

He was a bit frustrated that his ailing second in command was asking after the incident. However, William tolerated it because it would have been Bordon's duty to take care of the situation had he been upright on his feet. The leader knew that the captain had every right to be apprised of what had happened.

"Begging your pardon, sir, but I questioned the girl myself just hours ago," the dragoon second in command informed. "She swears that she did not put them there, and to her knowledge, her servants are not involved in any covert rebel activity. I examined the weapons in question and found them to be rusted and in faulty order, as if they weren't maintained or forgotten about. Could it be a possibility that maybe they were indeed forgotten?"

"Captain, I understand your leaning toward diplomacy and I appreciate it. And I am always impressed that you want to keep apprised of what goes on while you are on and off duty, and sick as well—"

Bordon interrupted. "I believe her, that the weapons had been forgotten for a long while."

Tavington disagreed and defended his point. "Be that as it may, Bordon, it was contraband that was found no matter what condition it was in and whether or not it had been forgotten. It had been intentionally placed there at one time. _Someone_ had to be punished for the deed."

"I understand, William, but did it have to be so harsh?"

The redcoat commander stopped for a moment and looked out the window. He let a moment of heavy silence go by, making Bordon shudder in his seat, wondering if he had said too much this one time.

William turned his head from the window to look at his adjutant. "Yes, Hugh, it had to be. I had to make an example of her to send a message to all the locals that aiding rebels will not be tolerated."

Saying nothing back to his superior, Bordon shook his head in acknowledgment. He wondered again if he had said too much, afraid that his honesty might just damn him. The two men had two opposite styles of leadership: Tavington tended to be severe and rash, usually not thinking about the repercussions of his actions. Bordon could be harsh as well, however, he had enough self discipline to stop and think things over as he remained calm, calculating the effect a good dose of diplomacy might have over a quick round of brutality. Hugh knew he was near the edge, and while he knew that Tavington respected him, Bordon also knew his place. He knew that a mark of insubordination against him wouldn't help his future prospects in King George's army any.

Tavington sat back down at his desk. He truly did value Hugh Bordon's opinion and service. There was no better second in command and master of intelligence as the captain, as far as Tavington was concerned. And no officer he would rather have serving beside him.

He leaned back in his chair, putting his elbow on the desk. He rested his chin in his fingers, as if thinking, and stared across the broad desk at his aide de camp. "All of us in this regiment have dealt harshly at one time or another with these rebels."

William paused a moment then asked, "It troubles you that Miss Burwell was punished?"

Bordon sighed, truly regretting the taste of physical military discipline that the young female prisoner had received. Secretly, it pained his heart that this girl, who he had undeniable growing feelings for, was hurt. Torment showed on his face. "I understand the predicament and I am sorry that I wasn't there to help with it. I would never tell you that someone should not suffer a punishment if it was deemed necessary."

With that, he paused, trying to find the best, most effective words to say. "William, it is just that...I have worked so hard to get the people around here to trust me, and I had hopes that I might be able even to turn a couple of them. Especially Miss Burwell since her father is a traitor."

"I know you have," the colonel recognized.

"I don't think she...or even her servants...will ever trust us again."

"Trust can work favorably," Colonel Tavington admitted, "but they must fear us, as well."

"Yes sir," Bordon answered, trying to sound dutiful instead of defeated. But Hugh knew that his commander understood him and his feelings that the punishment was too much for the crime. Both men knew that Bordon would have handled the situation differently. And although there were times that Bordon could be as tough on colonials as Tavington, it was usually _Tavington's_ lack of patience and short temper that caused trouble and ruckus. That usually left a mess for Bordon to mop up with his civility.

With that Bordon excused himself and walked slowly up to his room. As he paused on the second floor landing, he looked out the window and noticed Tavington making his way towards the soldier's tents, no doubt for some cards and wagers.


	33. Chapter 32: Want And Err

**Author's note: I am so sorry that it has taken me 4 months to get this posted. Wendy just finished 3rd grade and working full time has worn on me. In just a couple of weeks Wendy starts school again. I quickly proofed this, but know I have probably missed some stuff which I will fix tomorrow when I am more awake! Thanks again for sticking with this story and reading anything I put up. I apologize again that it took me so long. Thanks.**

**JScorpio**

**Indianapolis, Indiana USA**

Chapter 32: Want And Err

_June 1778..._

_Virginia_

"Halt!" the young soldier shouted, dropping his musket, bayonet fixed, into a stance warning.

Young Johnny Bernard dropped his fishing gear and bent over, trying to gather his breath. He wasn't sure how many miles he had both walked and ran on foot, but he was tired. He stood up and in a winded voice, answered the colonial private. "I have an urgent message... for Colonel Burwell...from Devington...near his own farm."

"I'll take him," Collins, another young private stepped up and answered.

The boy followed Private Collins, winding their way through a labyrinth of dingy, white canvas and dirty uniformed men sitting and standing. As Johnny passed the cooking fires, the smell of freshly cooked meat and hoecakes made his stomach growl.

A large tent with two blue coated guards posted on both sides of the door finally came into view. They ducked under the marquee to find Colonel Burwell seated at a table, reading missives. His Aide-de-camp, Major Zeller, was equally engaged, sorting the paperwork. A third man, Colonel Martin of the militia, his hair askew and looking tired, was seated at a small desk scrawling something in a quick manner on some paper. The three officers did not look up, pressed by their tasks at hand and not wanting interruption or _more_ work.

"Colonel Burwell, sir," began Collins, "the boy carries an urgent message from Devington." This got the attention of all three colonial leaders, who all stopped what they were doing to look up with concerned expressions knotting their eyebrows.

Harry stood up and walked around the table. When he reached the boy, he ruffled his hair. "Master Bernard, you are a long way from home."

The young teen smiled. "I had to finish my journey on foot. The lobsters confiscated my horse at a checkpoint."

"At least they let you through," Zeller piped up.

"They took my two rabbits, the ones that I shot along the way, as well," he informed. The British army always thought it judicious to deprive the enemy, and even seemingly innocent civilians, of food whenever they could; it was one of their tactics. "They saw my pole and told me to get my food from the water instead."

"You _do_ put on a good ruse, Johnny," Burwell complimented.

The youth ripped at the patch on the front of his pants, sewn on sloppily and in haste by his mother. He always hid his messages beneath a patch sewn somewhere on his clothing. Paper was foldable, thin, and easy to conceal.

"Thank you," Burwell said as he took the message from the boy's hands.

"When can I join up?"

"You never leave without asking me that," Harry joked, "and my answer has not changed: when you are fifteen."

Bernard frowned in response, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket in disappointment. Truth was, he was a good messenger, and would make a Hell of a scout when he could join, but Harry refused to use children save for musicians and the ferrying of occasional messages when proper couriers weren't available. Children and women weren't suspected by the British, though they were stopped regularly at cordon points.

"Private, get the boy here some food to take back with him," Harry said, walking the boy to the door of the tent. He put his arm over the lad's shoulders. "I can't spare a mount for you," he apologized, his division hurting for horses, mules, oxen, and now relegated to any nag it could find. "But you can ride pillion with one of our patrols as far as it goes in your direction. You'll have to foot it home from there."

"I may be able to catch a ride along the way. I'll be fine sir."

"I know you will. Thanks for the messages and give my regards to your mother."

"I will." With that, Johnny and young Private Collins ducked out of the tent, leaving the three officers alone again. Martin, who had said nothing, put his quill into the inkwell and blew on his note to dry the ink. Benjamin watched with the sharp eye of a hawk, wanting to know what was contained in the emergency missive. His eyes darted to Zeller, across the tent, who was trying to look busy reading reports, but Ben caught him stealing a glance at his commander.

Harry unfolded the report. Benjamin Martin watched his commander keenly and covertly. From his vantage point, he could see that it was brief, maybe three paragraphs.

"No!" Colonel Burwell heaved in anguish as he collapsed into his chair. The man shook his head, then rested his forehead in his palm, his elbow on the table. He moaned quietly under his breath, in obvious agony.

Both Zeller and Martin got up from their chairs. They knew that whatever the word from home was that he had just received was not good.

Always ready to assist and spring into action for her superior, Zeller spoke as he approached. "What can I do, sir?"

The militia colonel and the major both knew of the horrid news that came from his farm just days ago. Harry Burwell had kept the contents of the disturbing message quiet, preferring to stew and grieve over it alone. When he could take no more, he had given it to Zeller and Ben Martin to read. Both were surprised to find a scathing letter written in the fine penmanship of Lieutenant Colonel William Tavington of His Majesty's Green Horse. They knew that the legion had confiscated the Burwell homestead and were now using it as a billet and supply depot for royal troops.

The message from the redcoat colonel was alarming and taunting, informing Harry that he had forced Burwell's teenaged daughter into his bed and stolen her virginity. _"What a fresh fruit she was to have picked. Indeed, her pulp is so sweet that I have decided to share her amongst my officers. No doubt her womb shall be filled with a dragoon bastard, and the traitor Clark won't want her anymore. Perhaps she will discover the enjoyment of the act, and willingly spread her legs for the entire legion. She could very well become the favored camp follower of the redcoat cavalry!" _

The two couldn't blame Harry for keeping the embarrassing letter to himself. He only let them read it after swearing an oath to never divulge what was in it to anyone, for if the terrible news was to reach the locals, it would be only by the British planting the gossip, and hopefully it would be unbelievable and confused. He would be damned if his own men would contribute to spreading such a rumor.

Martin and Zeller had consoled their aggrieved commander as best they could, beseeching him to have hope; that it was only a propagandic lie spun to threaten him as a leader. Tavington surely would not have assaulted her under threat of court martial. But why shouldn't Colonel Burwell believe it? The dragoons had the worst reputation in all of King George's army, seemingly being allowed to pillage, rape, burn, murder, ignore flags and truce, abuse parole and prisoners. "Le vert calaverie," as the colonial French citizens smattered throughout the ranks called them. And as it looked to outsiders, Tavington's raiders went unpunished for their atrocities.

"She was flogged," Harry announced, disheartened. "Only six lashes, but still..."

Martin took the letter from Harry and read it, with Zeller peering over his shoulder doing the same. This latest message was penned by Atterson, of the mercantile in town, as told to him by Johnny Lander, who had witnessed it. Devington's esteemed shopkeeper noted in the letter how shaken young Lander was, and became ill to his stomach at just the retelling of the incident.

Harry buried his face in his hands. "For old, unusable weapons, it seems," he groaned, voice muffled by his palms. "It was contraband, _probably hidden by me _years ago, yet she suffered for it!"

"It's clear that he wanted to make an example of her," Zeller said, re-reading the letter now in his hands, "to frighten the locals."

"We should send the butcher's notes to General Cornwallis," Martin stated, "then he will see, in Tavington's own handwriting, the acts that he admits to."

"No, that would take too much time," Burwell bemoaned.

"Time?" Zeller queried.

"Think about it, Harry," Benjamin coaxed.

"No," the colonel refused. "I don't have to. I've already come to a decision of what to do."

"That is?" Zeller asked.

"I want her out of there," Harry answered simply. He turned to look at his two aides, and his eyes were dark with determination and hatred. "I want her some place safe, away from that monster!"

"What can we do to help?" Ben said, his voice low and calm.

"Help me weed through these reports and missives to get them done and off my desk," he said of all the paper spread out over the table. "Then we will meet later and come up with some kind of plan to rescue Betsy that won't disrupt the daily runnings of this regiment and pull too many men away."

The two men pulled up chairs, one on each side of their leader around the table and began to wade through the paperwork. But the first letter that Benjamin reached for, was politely scooped up by Burwell.

"You don't have to check this one," he said. "It's only a letter from General Washington."

"What does it say?" they were always curious as to what the supreme commander had to say in his letters.

"That I have been promoted to Major General."

Benjamin relaxed back in his chair and gave a smug look to his friend and fellow military leader. "When were you going to tell us?"

"When it sank in and I could believe it myself," replied Burwell, his voice weary.

"Well done, sir," Zeller smiled congenially across the tabletop.

"Congratulations, Harry, or should I say, General Burwell," Colonel Martin saluted. "You have earned it."

Zeller looked up and smiled at his trusted superior. "Huzzah, General," the aide de camp said with a nod.

"Thanks," Harry simply replied. He was still burning inside from the humiliating abuse his daughter was forced to endure, and now his heart ached at the fact that with his wife and son, recently dead, and Betsy, in British custody, could not be there to celebrate an achievement he thought he would never live to attain.

/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/

_July 1778_

_South Carolina..._

The oppressive heat of the South Carolina summer was in full swing and Captain Bordon's patrol had been out in it since early morning. Riding, checking passes, asking questions, surveying the area, keeping their frightening presence in the county ever alive had left the officer and his score of men under a layer of sweat and red dust kicked up from their horses. They were thankful to finally be riding up the long driveway of the Burwell plantation.

Though tired, Hugh Bordon kept his professional countenance and dismissed the men with his compliments and thanks before parting ways. He looked back only once to see the soldiers scattering in different directions toward their modest tents, and caught sight of his second for the patrol today, Lieutenant Kidwell, at the well, drawing water and conversing with the pretty housemaid named Myriam. He continued on wearily, leaving his duties of late behind.

Hugh trudged slowly up the sidewalk to the main house, the muscles of his legs in full revolt from being in the saddle for so long. One more spasm in his thigh would drop him to the ground, he knew it.

Within a moment, he crossed the threshold into the back of the house, where the voices of the servants in the preparation kitchen met him in the back hallway. The two maids within, busy with rolling out pie dough, did not call a greeting to him and he did not acknowledge them. That was fine with officer; he was exhausted and preferred to be left to himself anyway.

The captain came to the foyer of the center hall, where he rounded the corner and set a tired foot on the wooden steps. He climbed the stairway, which seemed longer than usual to his sore body. When he reached the second floor landing he sighed, relieved to be within sight of his quarters. As he made his way to his room, he took note of the closed door of Miss Burwell's chambers.

Once at his own bedroom, he hesitated a moment, staring blindly at the wood of the girl's door. In a flash, he recalled the pitiful state she was in when he examined the angry red slices that criss crossed her back, nearly two weeks since the flogging. He remembered the maid, Miss Pansy, and how she'd glared at him, spewing that the girl would never trust, nor ever want to see again, another redcoat after the unfairness of the incident. And indeed, most of the servants had regarded all of them with a frozen coolness, not doing absolutely any more than they had to just to get by. Hugh knew that William Tavington could care less, but Bordon felt it deeply. He had worked hard to get the trust of all the residents, for to him, they could all potentially be turned.

The captain could only assume that the Burwell girl felt the same. He wondered how he could face her now, knowing she must harbor the same distrust and rancor for him as she must have for _all _of King George's soldiers. It left him sour inside that all the months he had spent building a rapport with the young lady and her staff was torn asunder in a matter of moments.

Since the whipping, the girl spent most of her days in her room, humiliated at what had happened, and sore and recovering from the physical injury of it. The captain had left her alone, to heal from the pain and the shame. He had only seen her occasionally when she left to go to the necessary or some other small task.

The officer had missed seeing Miss Burwell, and did indeed wonder how she was doing. As he entered his room, he resolved to pay her a short visit.

Once inside, he glanced at a couple of letters and a Pennsylvania Gazette laying on the bedspread of his neatly made bed. His eyes crossed the small room to his desk, which he had taken the time to straighten up and organize before he left, now had a pile of reports and missives waiting for his perusal and signature.

He quickly shed his clothes, careful not to shake too much dust and dirt from his uniform onto the floor of his clean quarters. He laid a towel on the floor in front of his wash stand and looked at as much of his body as he could see in the small mirror. His face was dirty and tanned, and his chest and arms were white and grimy. He chuckled at his reflection, surprised at just how the Carolina dirt could make its way under his clothes and settle onto the skin beneath.

Bordon unwrapped the thong from about his plait of red hair, then undid the braid. His locks fell in waves about his broad shoulders. He ran a brush through it trying to calm the unruly cinnamon mane. After a moment of grooming, he saw that the brush had done the trick of taming his hair and didn't feel the need to dampen it for further smoothing. It would be fine for no more than a brief appearance before his commander and casual evening meal.

He didn't call for hot water, knowing it would take too long to get it. Instead he poured a bit of the crystal liquid from the porcelain pitcher into the bowl, and dipped a flannel in it. The water wasn't ice cold, but not quite up to room temperature either, thanks to the crock it had languished in all day. Hugh wet his hands, rubbed the cake of soap between them and onto the rag, making enough lather to clean. He then ran the soapy rag over his body, taking a quick standing bath, needing to be rid of the red dust and sweat that covered him and made him itchy and miserable.

With the water in the porcelain basin now dingy and soapy, he grabbed another rag and poured some fresh water from the pitcher over it. He rinsed and wiped the remaining soap from his body, and sighed at how good the cool water felt.

Instead of drying off with his towel, he stood there nude, in the privacy of his own room. The curtain was fluttering lazily at the window, a fine warm breeze blowing into his quarters. The officer let his body dry in the gentle moving air of his chambers, cooling his hot skin as it did.

Afterward he bent down and retrieved the wet towel he had stood on, wiping up the water spilled on the floor about the area. After hanging the towel over the washstand to dry, he padded across the room to his bureau. He pulled a clean pair of doe colored trousers and a white shirt from the chest drawer and quickly donned them.

Spying his watch on the bed, the captain flipped it open and grimaced at the time. It was after 6 pm and dinner hour was quickly approaching. Bordon also knew that his commander would most likely want to talk with him about the time spent at the fort. He sighed, unhappy that he couldn't just lounge casually the rest of his evening in his room, staying cool in only a shirt and breeches. The dragoon adjutant consoled himself with the fact that he wouldn't have to be in full uniform to take dinner at table with the other officers; just pull on his waistcoat, tie his neck stock and slip into his boots would make him presentable enough. He could even get away with his hair pulled back into a loose pony tail without the tight braid of daily legion wear.

Bordon put his vest on, buttoning it up fast. Then he pushed a comb through his hair, pulling his ginger mane back with a red ribbon. Last, he wrapped an ivory cravat about his neck and tied it into a casual knot. He finished by looking in the mirror where he assessed himself as dressed up enough for dinner and a meeting with his superior.

The officer headed out of his room and once again hesitated in the hallway. He stood there just staring again at the wood of Miss Burwell's closed door. None of the other dragoons had her ear and trust, nor shared the closeness that the _two of them _did, so he assumed that no one had bothered to come and speak with her while he was gone or try to assuage her fears. It irked him that she was thought of as little more than a captive by the redcoats around him. It had troubled his heart as well, that he had to leave so soon after her flogging, sure that she had been left to languish in festering fear and distrust.

He felt the burning need to set that right straight away.

With confidence, he knocked firmly on the closed door of her chamber. "It's Captain Bordon. May I come in?"

"Yes", was the lackluster toned answer he heard through the door.

Betsy Burwell had spent the better part of the last 10 days cloistered behind the closed door of her room. She felt protected there, away from the prying eyes and hushed whispers and downright embarrassment her flogging had brought with it. She had no one to face there; nobody to explain her side of the story to; no persons watching her-pitying her.

The girl knew that she had been made an example of by the Colonel. Being flogged in front of everyone had left her humiliated. The pain of her mortification hurt worse than the actual sting of the lash. She felt no dignity left to preserve, so like a frightened child, she hid in her room, the seemingly only safe place for her.

So she shuddered in fear when she heard the knock on her door and Bordon's voice. He had been the only redcoat she trusted; now she wasn't sure. Miss Burwell had doubted that the dragoon second in command would challenge his superior officer on her punishment; he couldn't under threat of loss of his rank. And the man had been in no physical shape at the time to even try to prevent it, a fact she could not fault him for.

Dressed only in her nightgown and housecoat, she pulled the robe tightly about her and tried to find some strength to face the redcoat officer as he walked through her door.

"Good day, Miss Burwell," he began softly. She merely nodded.

"I've been gone at the fort for so many days," Bordon informed, already feeling the awkwardness of this situation, "and I wanted to inquire after your recovery."

"I'm well," Betsy said hoarsely. She looked at the floor, avoiding his curious eyes. The girl had experienced his excellent deference and she knew that if she looked into his eyes, that she would be drawn in and ensnared in diplomacy, when all she wanted to do was cloak herself in anger and distrust; it was her only defense.

"That's good to hear." The captain kept his eyes on the girl, knowing she felt ashamed. He, too, had known the burning pain of the whip. As a young recruit in England eight years earlier, he'd received 20 lashes for breaking curfew. He had been on an evening's leave to see Sarah, his future wife, who he had been wooing at the time, and didn't make it back before eleven bells. As usual for men in the army, he had been stripped to his bareback and flogged in front of his entire brigade. For men, the humiliation of it seemed to wear off faster, as most of the recruits had been punished by the whip, time in the stocks, or confinement to quarters at one time or another. They all had empathy for one another.

But Miss Burwell was a young girl; fragile, and for a female to be stripped to her nightgown for all to see was humiliating enough. But to suffer punishment in front of all, then know that the rumors would travel the countryside, was more than she could take. Captain Bordon could only assume that her trust with the British, including him, was probably on shaky ground.

He pressed on, wanting her to know that he cared for her welfare. And needing to know where he stood with her.

"I've been thinking," he started, his words cautious and measured, "that it would be fine for you to call me by my Christian name when it is just the two of us in company."

The girl glanced up at him just long enough to search his face for jest. Satisfied that his invitation was no joke, she sighed and cast her eyes downward again. "Of course," she answered, less than excited.

After a jagged silence cut between them, she spoke to dissipate it, speaking the only response that came into her mind. "Then you must call me as such."

"Certainly," he replied, smiling cordially despite the fact that she still hadn't held his gaze. He felt some hope in knowing that she would allow such an informality between them.

More silence, permeating the air and hanging low, seemed to be the buffer that held the captain back. How could he break the stubborn ice surrounding the girl, he wondered. The redcoat officer, always a master at interrogations of prisoners, was falling short here. He needed her to open up and talk. Any words would do; he knew how to wade through them to find conversation.

Bordon swallowed then continued on. "Um...may I check your wounds, Betsy? I've been concerned with how you are healing," the officer explained gently; honestly.

"Yes," she responded with a sniffle, fighting a sudden lump in her throat and teary eyes. Without thinking, she let her loose robe fall down her arms, stopping at her elbows, then she pushed the camisole top of her shift off her shoulders. The garments bundled around her waist, exposing both back and bare chest.

Hugh Bordon, eight feet behind her and just to the side, gulped hard and groaned under his breath when he saw a glimpse of her bare left breast from the side. The officer wasn't even aware that his mouth had dropped open and gave him the appearance of a gawking young schoolboy. Still the man looked on dreamily and in disbelief. He couldn't take his eyes off the pert, young teat, standing noble away from her chest with absolutely no sag to it. It wasn't as buxom as some of the whores' breasts he'd had the pleasure of seeing, but was no small bud either. It was firm and high of a girl just getting the first curves. The skin was milky white, and the nipple so very pink and smooth, the tip barely jutting out, teasing him and making him want to see it at full stiffness.

Betsy turned her head to catch the officer gaping transfixed at her bit of nudity. She had been so used to letting her servants doctor her back this last week that dropping the top of her chemise was nothing to her now. The girl realized her error: that he wasn't one of her female housemaids there to slather butter and herbs on her wounds.

She looked ahead again, rolling her eyes at her own lack of thought and sighed. "Sorry," she murmured as she nonchalantly covered her front.

With her modesty restored, Bordon, still unable to speak due to his own shock, stayed in place, not wanting to move. His cock had twitched within his woolen pants at the sight, and now a semi erection had formed, and he was trying hard within his mind to calm his body.

The redcoat officer took a deep breath and composed himself. Feeling a little easier now, he padded quietly to her side, hoping his manhood wasn't apparent through his trousers.

Regaining composure, he acted every bit the restraint of his profession and looked her wounds over as a doctor would.

There was only a little redness and swelling. Mostly, the six vivid pink, raised lines on her back were apparent. He thought that she may have scars, but faint at that.

With a quiet thanks, he backed up and turned away as the girl pulled her robe back over her shoulders, making herself decent.

He spoke carefully again, testing her trust, hoping it had not gone. "How long have you been in here?"

"Days," she answered in a small voice, turning away from him.

"I, too, know the sting of the whip," he imparted.

She didn't want to hear it for she was too lost in wallowing in her own sorrow and humiliation. Miss Burwell mumbled a "hmm" and listened shallowly to his story.

As he retold it, and how it was more of a rite of initiation for young redcoats and how they rallied about each other afterwards, it only deepened her contemptive feeling that they were indeed a brotherhood, closed off to any outsiders. Then she questioned her _own_ self, and how she could have put so much trust in this one enemy officer. What she now thought of as her own stupidity sickened her. She had to find some strength within her soul somewhere in order to steel herself against the British invaders.

She soon realized that the captain was no longer speaking, and another heavy silence passed between them. Betsy turned away and spoke.

"Hugh, I appreciate your concern," she admitted, "but I'm tired and I no longer wish to speak of this. Please just leave me be."

"Yes," he answered with disappointment. The officer turned and headed toward the door. He paused there, his hand resting on the doorknob. He still had an unresolved issue that he needed the answer to. Immediately.

"I need to know something," he began plaintively.

Miss Burwell, who had turned back to gaze blindly out the window, closed her eyes and sighed. She didn't want to answer any more questions from him.

"What?" The girl continued to look out the window, not bothering to face the captain.

"Do you trust me still?" He stepped toward her from the door.

"I don't trust ANY redcoat!" she snapped out, more than irritated.

"You can trust me," he defended himself.

She whirled around quickly, nearly knocking the brawny officer down with the breeze about her movements. "Why should I?! You're the same as all the rest! A member of your brotherhood!"

"I am not like the rest!" he appealed.

"Yes you are! All of you!" she growled. "You are a brotherhood. You defend each other and cover one another's misdeeds-"

"I am not like that," he said just as the image of his own rape of Mrs. Selton's houseservant flashed across the back of his mind. "Your flogging...I protested it to Colonel Tavington. I said that it was too much."

That did nothing to sway her. She heard his words, but they barely registered. She turned away.

"It is part of my duty to protect you," he argued.

"I don't see how you have the time with all of your other duties," she spat sarcastically,

"You must trust me," he beseeched, reaching for her elbow. "I am doing my best to protect you."

"I don't want your protection!" cried the girl. "I just want you all to leave!"

"That isn't going to happen," Bordon informed.

She turned and scowled at him. "Then send me away...somewhere away from your leader."

"That isn't possible either," the officer advised.

_Would they never leave? Would her life ever get back to where it was before the war, despite the deaths of her mother and Stephen? Couldn't they move someplace else. _She turned back to the window and dissolved into tears, helpless to guide her life in any direction.

"I need you to trust me," Hugh begged, sounding nearly broken.

"No," she blubbered in a muffled voice as she cried into her hands.

The redcoat captain could take no more of her tears. He turned her about gently and pulled her to him, though she fought weakly to stay away from him. Once in his arms, she sobbed into his chest, leaving tracks of tears on his waistcoat.

The officer breathed a sigh of relief to be comforting her. He loved her body against his the scant times he had been lucky enough to console her. The man relished holding her firmly within he circle of his arms.

After a moment more of her weeping, he took her chin between his fingers and lifted her head. He gazed down at her tearful eyes and red cheeks. His member was nearly erect and his groin ached for her. The officer found himself nearly breathless.

"Don't you know what I feel for you, Betsy?"

The sniffling girl closed her eyes when she felt his lips gently on hers. She didn't resist him. Bordon was surprised when she didn't fight him. In fact, she melted against his body and into the kiss.

His tongue coaxed her lips softly apart. It snaked cautiously and slowly into her mouth, which she let him have his leisure to explore. As he did, she reached upward and slid her arms about his broad shoulders, not wanting to let go of him. The couple's lips tussled silkenly against each other, lingering softly as they toyed and played.

After another moment, her lips left his to trail feathery kisses along his jaw bone, ending at his ear, when she nuzzled his ear lobe. "Hugh," she whispered into it.

The murmuring of his name fired yet more boldness into his soul. He coaxed her arms down as she breathed lightly on his neck. His hands gently moved under the shoulders of her robe and eased it down her arms until it was free from her body and slid to the floor in a silken heap.

Captain Bordon's wet mouth took Betsy's willing one in another deep kiss, slow and sensual. As it did, the young lady slid her arms back around the shoulders of her lover. Her heart raced, making her feel that each breath was an effort. Her pulse thrummed in her ears like a drum.

This what she had wanted for so many months; an intimacy between them.

His hands soon found her youthful, apple sized breasts, of which the nipples poked the gossamer material over them into small triangles. The captain groaned as he palmed the twin, high orbs through her night gown.

"Oh," Betsy breathed at his boldness. Her head swirled at the feeling of his hands on her chest, and her lips departed his as her head dropped back in ecstacy.

She thought she would swoon when his finger tips pinched her nipples, even through the flimsy material. She felt an undescribeable thickness pushing through her body, which soon manifested into a pressure between her legs; an incredible longing. The girl wanted more but for the moment, was too caught up in the feeling to ask, as well as too timid.

The officer's penis was now fully erect and constricted in his breeches. The warmth in his groin drove him into a frenzy. He had to soothe his manly ache quickly.

Their lips were again together, their mouths open and hungry. The couple's tongues touched for an instant, enough to tease a forced breath into each of their throats. His mouth left hers, and she murmured a groan in protest. The captain's mouth placed a trail of soft, airy kisses along her cheek, ending at her ear where his breath upon the shell of it made her sex clinch tighly between her legs.

His lips trailed light kisses down her neck, and paused at where it met the junction of her right shoulder. Bordon lingered there, mouthing and licking the skin as his hands moved upward. Soon his fingers hooked the sleeveless top of her chemise and pushed it down her arms. It caught between her elbows and wrists, holding her there as if a prisoner to his whim. She didn't fight; somehow she liked the gentle restraint; she relished that he commanded her body and would give and take enough for both of them to enjoy.

The sight of her now bared, supple young breasts drove him mad with desire. His stiffened manhood ached with longing, wanting to get inside her tightness. He let a breath escape his lips as he adored and gazed at her youthful bosom, high, young, ripe for him to partake of. His hands gently palmed her breasts as his mouth found her mouth again. The captain took his time, kissing her lips and fondling her dugs. Betsy moaned into his mouth, loving the first time feeling of a man carressing her naked tits.

His mouth departed hers, making her groan in disappointment. She watched his head curiously as it dipped. Indeed the man could not wait to taste her rosy, youthful nipples. His lips soon caught one of the hardened, innocent pink rosebuds between them. But instead of sucking, he spent a moment teasing her with his lips whisping over it, and his tongue whisking around and over it.

"Oh...ah", Betsy whimpered in longing as her head dropped back. This was the first time ever for a man's mouth to cherish her breasts, and she loved it. Yet it already tormented her, his teasing actions on her aching, stiffened buds leaving her wanting...needing more.

And then his mouth clamped securely onto the nipple, sucking and pulling on it. Betsy arched even more into him, her knees going weak. "Ah...ah...yes," she murmured, her eyes closed.

His hand kept her other breast entertained and aching as he brushed his palm teasingly and quickly back and forth across that nipple. The girl looked down to watch his actions, cooing again as she saw his tongue snake out from between his lips to circle the nipple.

The girl softly pushed her hands into her loosely queued hair, as if keeping his head at her bosom. "Oh..Hugh," she whispered lustily as he suckled hard on her left nipple.

After a moment of patience of sucking her left bosom, his mouth left it and kissed fiery kisses across her chest to the right one. Bordon's mouth latched securely onto the puckered peak. He sucked it gently, then ran his tongue over it, and slowly around it, coaxing it to harden just a bit more. He smiled as she mewled, then nuzzled it with his lips, teasing her, making the girl want him to take it into his mouth again.

His suckling of her virgin, hardened nipples sent sparks through her bloodstream, and they all seemed to pool between her legs. She was left aching there, knowing she needed more. Her anxious sex tightened instinctively, which only seemed to heighten the longing in her womanhood.

His other hand went back to carressing her left breast. His fingers stroked and kneaded, then rolled the nipple between them. His thumb pad brushed over the stiffened point, teasing it with a lightness that made her breasts throb and ache, wanting more. Her mouth was dry and she struggled to breathe.

"Hugh...please," she pleaded breathlessly.

The redcoat officer smiled, pleased that he was awakening her sexual urges. He wanted her to need him.

Betsy, her fingers still entwined in his hair, slipped them out gently. A few auburn strands escaped, now loose outside of the ribbon. She put her hands under his chin and raised his head, stopping him from his pleasurable task.

As his face came to hers, she kissed him hungrily, surprising him yet again with her boldness. The young lady's tongue stroked slowly in his mouth, and he could still sense her shyness as this. She wisped kisses along his face to his ear, which she kissed and sucked ravenously, making his stomach fill with anticipation.

"Ah...God," he ground out as she did.

"You can have me," she whispered against his ear, which was all the permission he needed.

His lips took hers in a grateful kiss as he eased her backwards toward her bed. Once there, her shift still around her waist, she laid down with him atop the coverlet.

Captain Bordon turned onto his side to face her, kissing her neck and shoulders. With his lips soon back on her earlobe, which made her shiver, he murmured his desire.

"Spread your legs," he instructed.

She didn't answer but complied, panting heartily as she opened her legs for him. Betsy jumped, startled when she felt his hand first on her knee, then beginning to push her skirt upward. Once her chemise was bunched up at the top of her thigh, his hand moved upward, slowly, on the inside of it.

Betsy felt as though she would faint while awaiting his touch. "Oh," she cried when she finally felt his fingers glide over her sex.

Hugh was pleased to find her youthful cunt wet and sticky, ready for his cock. His fingers moved over the outer skin, as if committing to memory the feel of the folds. Betsy's middle seemed to somersault and spark with each touch.

His finger soon parted the lips and moved into her soaked womanhood, which he trailed his fingers around and through with such gentleness that it nearly brought the girl to tears. She moved her hips tentatively under his hand, then pushed them up a bit. She needed more; she needed him to touch her more deeply.

The officer's fingertips circled her engorged cleft slowly, which sent a jolt of electricity through her body. "Oh...ah...," Betsy moaned. The double assault of Bordon's lips enclosed firmly around her nipple, sucking it heartily, in union with his fingers massaging her swollen nub, made her wince and writhe beneath his touch. It was as if her body no longer belonged to her; he commanded it, demanding her to relinquish it to him to work a spell of pleasure on it.

Her hips seemed to move on their own, in tandem with his fingers, heightening the sensations. The girl's head sunk back into the pillow and she panted. She closed her eyes and begged again, unsure what she was pleading for. She just needed to feel more. "Oh my God, Hugh, please!"

The officer's lips curled into a smile against her puckered nipple. His mouth grazed her skin with quick, feathery kisses as it moved up her chest to her neck again. And as he nuzzled her ear, his hand left the folds of her quim to move only an inch lower. Once there, he gently pushed his thick index finger up into her tight, wet velvet.

"Oh," she whimpered, feeling his digit snaking its way deep into her. "Ah...yes...mmmmm", she groaned.

"Christ...your tight," he murmured as her slick vaginal walls hugged his finger snugly. He began to slowly slide it in and out of her, probing her young passage, getting to know its curves and depth.

She turned her head suddenly to find his mouth, where her lips took his in a deep kiss rent with her longing. She needed his mouth on hers. The girl wanted to feel his tongue searching her mouth, entangling with her tongue, just as his finger was searching within her satin cave.

After a moment of this pleasure, he withdrew his digit from her, making her pull back from him mid kiss. Never taking his eyes from hers, he pressed two large fingers up into her vagina, a bit more insistently than gently as he did initially.

Betsy's eyes widened in shock. Instantly she cried out in discomfort, his fingers stretching her. "Shhhhh," he quieted her.

He was in disbelief himself at how her wetness stretched at his invasion, yet welcomed and encompassed his questing fingers within. Hugh was amazed at just how tight her youthful pussy was after having been penetrated twice before...but months ago.

"Relax," he whispered against her lips. HIs mouth left hers, where he dragged it softly against her skin back down to her chest. His lips clamped onto her nipple and sucked as he left his fingers resting deep inside her wetness.

After a moment of suckling, he stopped, then teased her stiffened nipple with his tongue. He circled it slowly, then lapped at it with fast strokes. The captain paused again, slowing down, licking at the taut peak leisurely, then agonizingly slow, as if drawing out her tension.

It worked, for his mouth on her chest caused a pooling of heaviness between her legs, making her want him so. Again, her body seemed not her own and she found her hips moving and urging her lover's fingers to probe her again.

Bordon then eased his two digits out slowly, teasingly so, to where the tips of his fingers hung just inside the opening, threatening to pull free from her cave with just a breath. "No," the girl gasped at his teasing, not wanting his fingers to come out of her. With that, he shoved his fingers hard back up into her, making her gasp. And when his fingers found resistance within her, he plunged just a tick further, finding her cervix, and grazing the tips over it.

In a moment, his fingers within her wetness found a rhythm with her gently swaying hips, the movements by each goading the other one on. Her fingers worked into his tied back hair again, and she eased his head from her chest back upwards.

His lips crashed into hers, and the two hungrily licked and probed each other's mouths. All the while, his fingers plunged quietly and deeply within her, stroking her satin walls with patience. The gentle, short probing of his two thick digits within her was driving her insane. Her hips, which she felt surely had separated themselves from her body for they had a mind of their own, were urgently meeting the strokes of his fingers, matching the rhythm.

Betsy slowed the pace of their kisses, the two of them savoring one another's lips, playing gently up each other's mouths. By this time, Hugh's erection was hard as a stone and he knew he needed relief soon. Her silky tightness was so wet and inviting, as if beseeching for his hardness to invade.

With his manhood aching and throbbing, Bordon rolled himself to where he lay in between the young lady's legs. They continued to kiss languidly, though he was frantic to get his eager cock inside her wetness.

As he reached down to his pants, he heard footsteps and muffled female voices in the hallway. They passed just as quickly, and he was sure they belonged to servants doing their chores. The quick distraction was enough to pull him back to his senses.

The officer pulled away from his lover, looking with concern over his shoulder at the doorway. "What's wrong," Betsy asked in a murmur.

"The door is unlocked," he breathed.

"We will be fine," the girl assured in a whisper. She kissed his neck, trying to comfort him. She was aching to have him. And at this moment, she was so very wet and on fire for the officer that she cared not if anyone should enter.

"No," he insisted, pushing himself to sit up between her legs still. " We can't! We will be discovered."

Betsy felt like she wanted to cry. She didn't understand. He was all over her only a moment ago, poised and ready to plunder her, and she just as eager to receive him there.

She propped herself up on her elbows. "Don't you want me?" Her eyes were misted, and her heart hurt with the sudden rejection.

He looked down at her, sincerity and truth coloring his blue eyes. "Yes, very much so."

"Then why can't we do this? We both want it," Betsy pointed out as she sat up and pulled her shift back over her shoulders, covering her breasts. "I have wanted you for months."

"And I you," he admitted as he moved to sit at the edge of her bed. "But we can not."

An unwieldy silence passed between them, both unable to speak of the moment they had just lost.

Hugh turned to her. "This is my fault," he said, squarely taking the blame. "I seduced you in a moment of your weakness."

She reached out to touch him."But I wanted-"

He jumped from the bed, leaving her reaching out for him, just missing her fingertips. "No. We can't ever do this. I will lose my commission."

As the captain paced her floor, she sat up and scowled, a cloud of anger moving over her. She hated seeing a bit of selfishness come out in him after he had just given her so much pleasure.

"No, of course not! Your ambition comes first!" she sneered.

"Betsy, it is not just that," argued Hugh, "You wouldn't trust me either."

"What?!" she retorted. None of this seemed to be making sense. She trusted him enough to have let him under her skirt just a moment ago, only to have him stop at the slightest noise.

"You would think I was just another redcoat officer taking advantage of a prisoner," he pointed out.

"We _both_ want this," she shot back.

"Yes, so I must be the voice of reason here," said Bordon. "If we are caught together, both our reputations would be in jeopardy."

Miss Burwell, now off the bed and fuming, turned away from him. She was discovering just how much pent up angst a woman could suffer just a few moments after her sexual awakening.

"I am an officer, and I have worked hard," he pressed. "I don't want to lose my commission. And you are betrothed to another man. You and your family's reputation will suffer should you be discovered with me."

Hugh, in anguish, held his tongue for another moment as he paced. He heaved a hard breath, then sidled up behind the young woman. Cautiously he touched her shoulders, and rubbed them for a moment in a gesture of comfort.

Betsy closed her eyes. She was near tears with exasperation for the aborted experience.

"I need you to trust me," he whispered, his lips near her left ear. "I don't want just to get between your legs."

Of course he did want to bed the girl, but he desired more to keep her trust; to keep his hand in the pot of information. He needed to be able to turn the girl in the future, and maybe her servants. He still believed that the war could be won in little steps, one person at a time.

"This cannot happen between us," the captain declared as he turned the hapless girl about to face him. "In the future, if I cannot control my desires in your presence," he warned, "then I will have to avoid you." With that, he turned and quickly exited the room, leaving Betsy there alone, shaken up and confused.

Once in his room, he closed the door and collapsed back against it, needing something to hold him up. In his frustration, he reached for the linen on the basin stand. Then he urged his breeches down, freeing his aching cock from his pants. He covered the head of it with the towel and quickly gripped the root of it with his right hand.

He tightened his fist about it as hard as he could, wanting to allay the pain of his hardness caused from his botched attempt at intimacy. He moved his hand from root to tip in a fast, brutal way, urging himself to an orgasm faster than he had ever. And in just a few strokes, he came with a forcefulness that left him panting for breath as his semen stream shot thickly into the cloth.

"Damn," he swore as he wiped the tip of his penis clean and threw the soiled towel onto his bureau. With his knees still shaking, he made his way to the basin stand, where he dipped his hands into the room temperature water.

He bent over and splashed his face. As he rose, he pulled the ribbon from the back of his hair and tossed it onto the bed. The officer dipped his hands again then ran them through his red waves of hair. Lastly, he washed his penis off and rinsed his hands, hoping to have washed her scent from his fingers.

Hugh pulled his breeches back up as he turned away from the stand, then grabbed the ribbon from his bed as he strolled to his bureau. He brushed his hair quickly then tied the ribbon back into a long, auburn ponytail. The officer finished by pushing his shirt down into his trousers, straightening his vest and cravat.

"There now," he commented quietly to his reflection. "The picture of a gentleman."

Then he frowned in disdain at his own image in the mirror. "Who am I teasing? I am a complete scoundrel."

After his lament, the captain inhaled a breath of courage and relief, then exited the room to find his commander.


	34. Chapter 33: Dinner And Discussion

**My sincere apologies for delay in posting updated chapters. Real life is just too busy! Thanks for staying with the story. This chapter was longer, so I cut it into two chapters, so another one will be posted here soon. **

**JScorpio**

Chapter 33: Dinner And Discussion

"The scourge marks aren't showing, are they?" Betsy queried in a frantic voice. She was craning her head backwards over her shoulder as far as her neck would allow, trying to look at the back of her dress in the mirror.

"Stop squirming, missy," Pansy demanded, punctuating it with a firm tug, "I can't get this ribbon tied."

Betsy stood still as commanded. She was anxious, hoping her mother's dress—this one she had not worn before—would cover the remnants of her whipping from some weeks back. The wounds had healed into bright pink lines, still raised, but enough to let anyone know that they were new scars.

"No, they don't show," the middle aged maid said as she handed the mirror to the girl. Miss Burwell quickly eyed the backside of the frock, pleased that the dress came up high in the back.

She turned to look at herself from the front. A warm grin of satisfaction spread over her lips. The dress was cut very low in the front, and her reward for wearing a tight stay was the becoming figure of a woman in this particular garment, with round breasts and subtle, but noticeable cleavage showing.

The young woman had been notified late in the afternoon of an arrival of a contingent of Redcoat generals, complete with one Member of Parliament, here to observe the war and how things were going to report back to England. Colonel Tavington had, as usual, demanded that Miss Burwell play the part of plantation hostess. Betsy had to wait for hot water, then rush to get a bath in and have Pansy help style her hair. The two had been just as frantic to find something suitable to wear.

The late Mrs. Katy Burwell's dresses had been carefully packed into trunks when Colonel Tavington moved into billet in the main house, taking her room. A handful of the best dresses had been hung in Betsy's wardrobe, which was now overflowing with her own clothing, so much so that the doors nearly would not shut anymore on them. The young girl managed to find a forgotten dress that had been a favorite of her mother's. It was lavender silk, but with a dull shine with minimal lace and ribbons. It was too subdued for a ball, yet too fancy for church, but perfect for a formal dinner with dignitaries.

Pansy the servant smiled, looking over Betsy's shoulder in the mirror. "It is amazing how little farm girls turn into cultured women, isn't it?"

The two laughed heartily. But their mirth was soon startled by the chime of the clock in the hallway.

"Oh my! I've got to get downstairs!" Betsy plopped down on a nearby stool just long enough to put her shoes on, then fled her room.

As she rounded the stairway and into the landing, she stopped to look into a mirror in the hallway. She smoothed her hair back and her dress, then took a deep breath. After a few seconds, the young girl let the breath out, summoning as much courage as she could. Being as much of a lady as she could, she walked calmly through the breezeway and into the detached meeting room where the dinner boards were spread and crowded with red uniforms and a few powdered wigs.

When the teen aged girl entered the room, the men's heads turned to see a perfect young lady standing regally in the doorway. After all, this had been her family's plantation, before Britain seized it. Indeed, Betsy Burwell had transformed for a few hours this evening, into the image of a perfect, well bred young lady, every inch the plantation mistress. She was beautiful in Mrs. Burwell's pale lavender.

The officers' eyes drank in the sight, thankful for seeing an impeccably dressed lady, looking pretty with a demure coiffure. It was a relief for them to gaze upon her after seeing farm women laboring in soiled dresses and refugees with dirt smudged faces traipsing along the roads in tattered clothes trailing their children and belongings behind them. She was welcome sight indeed, reminding them of their class and distinction even amidst a war.

Betsy herself immediately noted that these were not 'fighting' generals. They were administrative—there to oversee the huge British military occupation and operation; there to evaluate and make sure the Kingdom's money was being spent wisely upon the war. She knew this because two of the three visiting commanders were older, over age fifty, looking as if they should be home in England, sitting on a porch somewhere in the countryside watching grandchildren prance and frolic before them. The other two men were in their forties, but nonetheless 'official' looking.

"Good evening, gentlemen," she greeted with a genteel smile, putting on her best warmth, "I'm sorry I am late."

Colonel Tavington shot her a subtle glare, letting him know he was not pleased with her tardiness. But the other generals smiled widely and dripped with forgiveness for her transgression. They were just so glad and appreciative to see a refined, albeit beautiful, young woman.

"Oh, no, no," one of the older generals, who looked as if he could be her own grandfather, waved off dismissively. "Indeed, we have anticipated meeting you—"

"And looking forward to your company", interrupted the middle aged man, who was the only one not in uniform. Betsy could tell right away that he was a charmer of women though not very handsome.

William turned about with a fake smile on his face and took back command of the room. "This is Miss Betsy Burwell. This is her farm which we happily are billeted at now."

He then began his introductions. "This is General Lassen, and General Costin." Betsy extended her ungloved hand to both older officers, letting them take it.

The colonel then moved her on. "This is General Deaton, and over there is Sir Christopher Addley, who is a Member of Parliament. They are all here visiting...checking on the situation for His Majesty."

"Welcome," said Betsy. "I hope you will find your stay here pleasing."

After a round of thanks to her for her hospitality, the visiting men introduced their adjutants, who were seated at the far end of the table visiting with Colonel Tavington's subalterns. The older gents, Lassen and Costin, shot condescending looks at their young aides, silently scolding them when they were caught gawking with wolfish expressions at the young lady. They immediately became stone faced, causing the dragoons' Captain Wilkins and Lieutenant Kidwell to chuckle, for they saw the girl everyday at her best and worst.

After only a moment, supper was brought in and placed on the long table. The visitors surrounded Tavington, who sat at the head of the table. Betsy had been put in the middle, seated across the board from Captain Bordon, who had been quiet so far. He nodded his head slightly at her, and she smiled back at him with a nod likewise.

Miss Burwell realized that she hadn't spoken more than ten words to the officer in as many days. She felt immediately the tension between them. Their last encounter, some interrupted foreplay in her bed, flashed in the back of her mind, and she did her best to fend off a blush. And he had made good on his threat to avoid her, or at least it felt that way.

Bordon felt trapped. He could go nowhere, expected to participate fully in this formality of a meal. He took a deep breath, trying to relax. He knew he couldn't gape, but his eyes were inexplicably drawn back to the young hostess. Again, as at the ball months ago, he marveled at her transformation from a farm girl doing daily chores to a demure, sedate woman. He noted her curves, shown off perfectly in this dress. The officer felt nearly tipsy when he looked at her rounded, young breasts—the same ones that he had caressed and suckled just days ago—peaked out and taunted him from the low collar of her dress. Her pretty neck, which he'd relished kissing the soft skin of, was decorated with a simple pearl necklace, again, teasing him. He grunted low in his throat and closed his legs under the table. Hugh felt the beginnings of an erection in his pants, and knew it would become firm and aching if he couldn't leave the table or occupy his mind elsewhere.

The dragoon second in command quickly downed his glass of Madeira. He motioned Walter, one of the servers, over to him. Hugh Bordon already had his wine glass up and ready, which the servant soon filled to the rim with wine from the carafe he carried. The officer didn't hesitate to begin sipping away at it. And that was all he could do for he knew it would be bad form to become inebriated in front of these generals. But at that moment, it was the only way he could cope with being in close quarters to the Carolina beauty whom he had attempted intimacy and failed.

Ninety minutes later, the dinner was still dragging on with boring small talk made by the generals and the Member of Parliament. Betsy continued to smile and answer questions politely, preferring for once to be seen and not heard. And although she could hear the inane babble droning on, and she answered demurely when asked questions, her mind was elsewhere.

She looked about the table, trying to keep a blank stare, wondering if the guests for the evening had heard or been told of her whipping just a few short weeks ago. She also wondered if news of Colonel Tavington assaulting her months ago had been spread, and if her father had heard of it. And if her father knew, then the news would eventually make its way to George Rogers Clark.

Miss Burwell also worried that the young rebel colonel would even _want_ to marry her after having been raped by Tavington. It was just as well if he did not for she was having her own reservations about their betrothal. It had been so many months since she met him those scant times in Charlestown. She was so taken with him and he seemed to be with her, as well, especially since her father had promised her to him. But Clark never wrote to her. And although she heard of his heroic exploits on the western frontier of the colonies in the gazettes, there was also more ominous news.

There were whispers of George's fondness for drink and drunkenness, how much money he was borrowing to finance his meager army, and how much even now, was owed back. Bankruptcy was already being mentioned in conjunction with his name. Worse, there were the stories of the women—single, married, Indians alike—all throwing themselves at him due to his hero status and handsome physique. Lurid stories in the more disreputable broadsheets of whom he had lain with, and of many redskin chiefs wanting him to have union with their daughters and even wives just to mingle the copper haired warrior's blood into the future generations of their tribes. All of it appalling to Betsy, and embarrassing. She hadn't seen this part of Colonel Clark when she met him, showing only his gentlemanly side and affability. And, even though Captain Bordon had tried to assuage her fears about Colonel Clark, telling her that men act differently during war, it didn't seem to help. It was as if Clark had forgotten her and forgotten the fact that he was betrothed to a country lady of good society.

Maybe it was for the best that he had forgotten his obligation, for she was no longer keen to marry him. But what if he came back after the war to claim his bride? Betsy told herself that she may be forced to wed the rebel officer, though she no longer held feelings or zeal for him.

She sighed and looked up from her plate slightly, enough to hazard a glance at Hugh Bordon, who was listening intently to the table conversation. She was glad he did not see her long gaze.

The dragoon second in command was a whole new set of trouble for her. She yearned for him, hoping he would notice, and after having one drunken encounter with her months back, he spurned her in favor of his officer's decorum. The captain suddenly aborted their most recent encounter just days ago, for the same reason. He had made good on his threat to avoid her, and for that she was glad and sad: glad to not have to encounter him and deal with awkwardness, but sad as she missed his company.

After her stolen glance at him, she set her eyes back down on her cake, staring at the half eaten dessert. _Don't I have enough to deal with already without having to fall into awkwardness with the captain on top of it all?! _

Bordon participated in the conversation, and saw that Miss Burwell was cautious and few in her answers. He thought that was wise considering her sometimes careless and bold mouth, which even after a year of living in legion captivity, still made surprise appearances. _You think she would have learned by now, _the captain thought as he recalled instances of her impertinence. But it was also clear to him, this man who knew her better than anyone currently residing on the farm, that Betsy's mind was elsewhere though politeness and seemliness trumped whatever bothered her inwardly.

During a lull in the conversation as dishes were cleared, Betsy folded her napkin and rose from her seat. "Well, gentlemen, I must take my leave of you," she apologized with all the graciousness of her kind and patient mother.

After the scooting of the chairs on the wood, she continued. "I am afraid I have quite a pile of vouchers on my desk, overdue to be signed and turned into the quartermaster," she lied. The girl just wanted to leave when the conversation had turned to British politics. "I shan't keep him waiting any longer."

And again, the girl sauntered across the room to curtsy to the generals and accept their valedictions. She turned when she reached the head of the table. "Gentlemen, if there is anything at all that you need during your stay here," she informed politely, looking as if she was indeed a loyalist plantation mistress and not a prisoner forced to play the part, "please do not hesitate to call on me or my staff."

And as the men answered with a raising of their glasses and a hearty "hear, hear" to the girl and libations of appreciation, she made her way to the side of Colonel Tavington.

Betsy spoke to him in a low voice, deploring how close she had to stand next to him to talk. "Colonel, may I go visit my friend, Mrs. Day, sometime during this week? She is near to giving birth and I'd like to see to anything she may need during her confinement."

William, pleased with how the girl had not seemed to cause any trouble in the last few weeks and exceptionally satisfied with her 'performance' this evening smiled just a bit. "Of course," he muttered low. "I'll have Captain Bordon set up an escort for you. See him tomorrow for the details."

"Thank you, sir. Good night." He merely nodded his head instead of responding as she left the room.

/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/

The officer's dinner finally broke up around 11pm. Hugh Bordon bid goodnight to all and took a detour to the horse barn instead of his room. His current horse, Apollo, had become inexplicably lame this morning. Always the good horseman, he wanted to check on his mount before he went to bed.

During his stroll down the path to the barn, he untied then rid himself of his cravat. Shoving it into his pocket as he walked, he smiled when a puff of cool night air hit his neck and upper chest, now free of their confines. And although the equine enclosure seemed to stink less in the lukewarm evening, the smell still entered his nostrils as he drew close.

The officer saw a lantern glowing on the floor near the middle of the building. He walked in the darkness and was pleased to find that the candle was coming from Apollo's stall. The captain stopped at the opening, watching as Gordie, the young squire and blacksmith's apprentice to the legion, was mixing up an offensive smelling herbal solution.

The golden steed vigorously nodded his head up and down at Bordon, trying to get his attention. The horse backed up and then stepped forward, and the officer could see the poor animal still limping.

"Easy, easy," the teen aged boy said, rising from his stool to take the horse's bridle. "Calm there."

"Hello," Bordon greeted Gordie, his deep voice subdued. All the while, his mount was still trying to get his master's attention.

"And a good evening to you to, Apollo," he said with a grin. The man reached out and stoked his horse's face, then moved to pat his neck. "I have a treat for you boy."

With that, he reached into his pocket and retrieved a ripe, yellow pear. The horse nickered happily as Hugh placed the fruit on his opened palm. Apollo gobbled it up quickly, crunching loudly without a care in the world. The sweet smell of the pear seemed to hang in the air around them momentarily after the beast had swallowed it down.

"How is he?"

Gordie, who was seated again, had taken some strips of cloth and pushed them into the pungent solution. "Same, sir. This is the fourth poultice of the day. I am hoping for some improvement in the morning."

The captain bent over and took Apollo's leg, lightly stroking over it. He let go of the beast's limb gently then straightened up and turned back to Gordie.

"Thank you," Bordon said. He then tossed a sovereign to the boy, who caught it."For services rendered." The officer knew that the enlisted men, though paid well and better than most of the soldiers in the world's various armies, were not wealthy by any means.

"I appreciate this, but I can't take this sir." The lad tried to give it back to the officer. "The legion pays me."

"I know," Hugh replied, refusing the coin back. "I appreciate your help, and I know Apollo loves you spoiling him. Don't tell anyone. Keep it and spend it on a good bottle of madeira or some coffee, if you can find it!"

"Thank you, sir. This is our secret. Thanks for your generosity."

"Good night, boys," he bid to both the horse and the squire with a silly smile.

With that, he sauntered out of the barn and back up toward the house. Looking off to the side of the darkened yard, Hugh left the path and headed to the well. Once there, Bordon shed his jacket and laid it on the ground. He was glad to be out of the woolen garment. Then, he reached behind him and unwound the black ribbon which covered his tightly braided hair, which seemed to be giving him a bit of a headache this evening. Shoving the thong in his other pocket, he quickly undid his auburn plait and in a moment, the cinnamon locks were freed and wild on his shoulders.

The officer pulled up a bucket of water. He wanted to wash up, somewhat informally, not wanting to carry what little stench of the barn that may be resting on his hands into the house with him. The officer also needed to cool down a bit, and he knew the water from the well to be colder than the liquid that had likely been sitting in the pitcher in his room for hours now.

Random thoughts crossed his mind as he splashed the cold water on his face and neck. _I hope our guests find us performing to the lofty expectations amenable to the Realm. What the Hell did Apollo do to his foot? Miss Burwell looked wondrous tonight. _The last thought surprised him and stopped his grooming for a moment.

He thrust his hands into the bucket and washed them. Again, his mind whirled. _Well, she is pretty naturally. And she does always look beautiful in formal situations. I can't...though. I must stop this silliness. She is too young and besides, she is a captive. Remember the rules, Hugh. _With that, he splashed his face.

Having banished all thoughts of Miss Burwell, he finished up his simple grooming by running his wet hands through his red hair. The dampness made it wavy and it rested atop his shoulders and limply down his back. He collected his jacket and strolled into the house, happy to be on to a night of sleep.

The Captain's eyes had just adjusted to the dark first floor hallway and darkness of the stairwell when he rounded the landing onto the second floor of the main house. Bordon was enjoying how quiet the house was. His eyes soon saw the soft light of candles filtering down the hallway coming from the alcove sitting area at the end of the floor.

As he neared his room, he saw that it was Miss Burwell, sitting alone on the small divan. The captain stopped at his room and opened the door. Curiosity got the best of him and instead of entering his bed chamber, he walked to that area.

The girl's legs were tucked under her and her robe pulled around her. Her book lay open on her lap before her, but she wasn't reading it. Her attention seemed to be outside on something unseen. Her arm was crooked at the elbow on the back of the settee, her chin resting in it, and she stared intently out the window into the inky blackness.

"Good night to you, lass," he said politely.

The girl didn't stir. She didn't even know that she wasn't alone anymore. Bordon spoke again. "Good evening, missy."

Again, the girl sat stock still, entranced by whatever she gazed upon through the window. Bordon, perplexed, padded quietly into the vestibule. He touched her arm, and she jumped. "Uh, Miss Burwell—"

"What?" she asked, startled.

"Uh...I just wanted to tell you good night, Miss Burwell."

_Well, he has resumed formalities between the two of us, she ruminated._ "Oh...Good night, sir." She closed her book and was quiet again.

The man nodded and turned to walk from the tiny area. Suddenly, he stopped in his tracks and slowly spun back to face her. "Might I say that you were very gracious this evening. The Colonel was well pleased."

She huffed and sat forward. Her tone took on some defense as she rolled her eyes. "I was doing what he ordered me to do."

The need to calm her came out of nowhere and possessed him. "Yes, you are good at it. And you looked stunning tonight, as well. I don't recall ever seeing that dress before."

Betsy, completely disarmed by the compliment, looked down and began to blush as her fingers moved nervously, gripping and fumbling at her book. "Um...it was Mother's."

"I see," replied Hugh. He let silence pass between them, not sure what to say. He needed deeply, within his soul, to breach the awkwardness that he had created between them.

Breaking the quiet, the captain spoke again. "Is something amiss?"

"What?" the girl asked as she looked up at him.

"At dinner this evening, despite being a good hostess, you didn't speak very much," the officer pointed out. "I know you better than any other soldier here. You weren't yourself."

"Well...I don't know much about the military or politics," she made the excuse.

"No, it wasn't that," Bordon disagreed. "Something is bothering you. Clearly, you were distracted when I found you just a moment ago."

"I'd rather not—"

"You know you may speak to me of anything," Bordon cajoled, partially out of duty, always gleaning intelligence, but mostly out of his heart for concern for the young lady. "We are in confidence."

With that Betsy heaved a tremendous sigh and stood up. The girl was quite irritated with Bordon, that he tended to fish things out of her and would not let go of the pole until she had taken the bait.

She blurted out, "Well, if you must know...I don't wish to marry Colonel Clark!"

Captain Bordon, stunned, looked about, hoping no one else had entered the hallway. He quickly grabbed the girl's arm with one hand, grabbed one of the lit candles with the other and pulled the girl from the alcove.

"What is the meaning—" she protested as she was shuffled along, but was interrupted with a quiet shushing from the officer.

"Shhhh." The man threw her through the doorway and into his room. He then shut the door and turned about to face the stunned girl. He leaned back on the door as if in relief, and whispered in a tone of panic to the young lady.

"You shouldn't have said that out there," he scolded.

"But you asked me! You just won't leave well enough alone!"

"Don't you know that the walls have ears?!"

Betsy looked at him in confusion.

"You know better than that!" he chastised. "Who knows if one of your servants was lurking in the darkness. They are about the house and farm at all hours."

"I trust them!" she shot back.

"Yes, but they gossip nonetheless," Hugh imparted. "You don't want what you just told me to spread all over the countryside, do you?" Bordon swept his arm in a wide arc, animating his words as he continued to look in amazement at the girl for having revealed something so openly.

The captain took a breath, then walked away from the door. He unbuttoned his vest and threw it and his jacket and neckstock onto the floor near his washstand.

"We can speak of this privately, in here," he said, sounding calmer.

"Are you sure there isn't someone hiding under your bed that will overhear us and talk?" she asked sarcastically.

"You are the one who wails about being the subject of gossip!" the captain shot back.

Neither one sat down, both too tense to do so. Betsy parked her body by the door and was relieved to see the captain lean back and partially sit on the edge of his desk, a respectable distance between them. For a conversation only, in confidence.

Private.

"You were saying..." the man trailed off as he crossed his arms over his chest, giving Betsy his full attention.

"I don't want to marry George," she answered, then looked down at the floor.

"I don't think you have a choice in the matter," he replied, trying to sound objective. "I believe your father has made up his mind. You are to be Commander Clark's bride."

"But I barely know him," she objected. "I only met him a few times in Charlestown."

"And obviously that was enough to see something between the two of you that satisfied your father," he argued.

"He didn't even consult me about it," Betsy cried, trying to keep her voice low.

"He doesn't have to. It is his right to marry you off to whomever he pleases."

Betsy was feeling desperate. She felt she had been forced into revealing her secret, and she was in close quarters with a man she held affection for. What was she to do? To her, the man she adored, Captain Bordon, was taking sides with her father, who was an enemy to the British, in support of marrying her off to Clark, another enemy officer. _Why, she asked herself. How could he do this?_

"I don't love him," she argued.

Bordon laughed nervously. "Many people aren't in love when they marry. I am sure that with time, you will learn to love him. The two of you will find a mutual affection."

"Did you love Mrs. Bordon when you married her?" Betsy asked impulsively. The captain shot her a dark look instantaneously, and Miss Burwell suddenly was sorry she had asked. But she couldn't take it back now.

"That's not your business," he replied darkly; ominously. His eyes narrowed in warning.

Her mouth dropped open at his callous, double standard. Most always she took him into her confidence, yet he never failed to hide as much about himself as he could. The girl decided right then that she would no longer stand for that, and turned cold.

She opened the door. "Well, obviously there is nothing more to be said. Goodnight, Captain."

The officer, eager for her company after avoiding her for so many days, wanted her conversation; her presence. He couldn't let go of her yet. The man raced to the door and pushed it shut, not allowing the girl to leave.

Betsy refused to look at him. She crossed her arms and stared at the door, and stewed at the sight of his arm across it, preventing her departure.

Both of them stood there frozen for a moment, in some sort of silly stand off. Both stubborn, neither giving in.

After a moment of an arrogant silence between the two, Betsy turned and spoke up. As she did, Bordon eased and stepped backward.

"Hugh, you have begged me to trust you," she advised coldly, not giving him any ground. "Trust moves both directions and you can't expect me to reveal things to you without your charging me with your own worries and secrets."

"You're right," he admitted. He would have to sacrifice part of himself, his secrets, which he was used to holding inside him, since he had no intimacy with anyone save for, seemingly, Betsy.

"Yes," he relented. "I did love Sarah before I married her. But it is different. My parents gave their blessing...we were from the same class of society."

"And so George and I are, too," Betsy pointed out. "He is from a good family."

"Yes, but you're openly protesting the betrothal that _your father_ made," Bordon said, punctuating the last few words with a solid point of his hand toward the floor. "You will disgrace your family."

"I can't marry him," she cried, shaking her head as she felt near tears. "I won't marry him."

"It is _not... your... choice_," the officer reinforced, measuring his words for effectiveness.

"But I'm in love with someone else!" she announced.

"You're too young to know what love is," argued Bordon.

"No I'm not! I _know _what I feel!"

"You've not a clue," the officer scoffed, brushing off her misguided feelings as he would dust on a tabletop.

The young lady suddenly turned away from her confidant, feeling shame and trepidation. "He is someone who is near me all the time," she said in almost a whisper as she turned back to face the man. "He protects me and cares for me NOW...HERE."

Blushing now at her admission, Betsy Burwell looked at the floor. But nearly as fast, she lifted her eyes and looked innocently and lovingly at the redcoat officder who stood just feet from her.

Captain Bordon gulped, and realized that he could not—would not—hear this. It would not exist if it was left unsaid. He walked toward her, wanting to move her back to her senses.

"Betsy ….don't—"

"Hugh, I love you," she proclaimed, "And I _know_ you have feelings for me. You said as much to me the other day...when you held me in your arms."

"No," he rebuked as he turned away from her. He walked to his desk where he put both hands on it and sighed in exasperation. "We can't speak of this. I WON'T speak of it!"

With that, awkwardness again hung heavy in the air between the two. Betsy felt angry at his sudden fear and refusal to admit the same for her. She knew he did...it was obvious in his words and actions to her. It had grown to be more than just an enemy officer doing the right thing by protecting a helpless captive from the rest of the world.

Instead, the two of them stood in anxious, suffocating silence. Bordon, refusing to acknowledge any feelings, and Betsy fuming.


	35. Chapter 34: Formalities Ended

**Hi readers. I proofread and edited this in a hurry. I will try to go back later and fix the missed mistakes. Enjoy.**

**JScorpio**

Chapter 34: Formalities Ended

Tired of avoiding the obvious, the Burwell youth took action. Still standing at the door, Betsy did what she had to do to get the officer's attention. The girl swallowed, looked up confidently at the man whose back was still to her, and quietly slipped her robe and chemise off. Both garments glided softly down her body and fell into a delicate puddle at her feet with nary a sound.

Still staring at the captain's back, she made no attempt to cover herself. After all, she wasn't innocent; her own virgin blood stained his sheets months back. She stayed silent as there were no words left to say now. Her nudity would speak for her.

Captain Bordon turned back to face the girl, ready to usher her out. Instead, he was stopped dead in his tracks by the sight before him. His mouth dropped open, and he was aghast. He came to his senses in an instant, not sure how he did.

"Oh, dear Lord," he swore, putting his hand loosely up to his eyes and covering them. He spun back around quickly, pausing to hunch over his desk.

In disbelief at what he had seen, he tried to gather himself back in. _She can't be. She isn't naked. I am just seeing things. She is too timid for that. I am imagining this!_

Once he had collected his wits, he took a breath to compose himself. Hugh then made a secret, quick deal with himself that he wouldn't turn from the vision too quickly again, rather he would study it—to make sure he knew exactly what he was seeing.

The officer turned about slowly. _Yes. Yes. She is naked and glorious and silent and unafraid. _

Bordon gazed at the young lady before him. Her hands hung bravely at her sides, not covering her womanhood or breasts. No. Indeed, she stayed quiet and still and let him look over her.

Forgetting any shame and propriety, he stared incredulously at the Burwell girl, who amazingly did not protest, but instead stood there before him and let his eyes take their pleasure. Her youthful body was lithe, with barely a curve at her waist and hips. Her breasts were medium sized, barely larger than small fruit, but ripe nonetheless. And there were those gossamer pink nipples, which stood stiff, looking tight and aching. Her belly had just a hint of baby fat on it—a remnant of childhood that clung to her, refusing to fall away. And lower, there was only a tiny swell to her hips. And in between, a triangle of sandy brown pubic hair showed itself, signifying that the possessor was of age and ready to receive.

Captain Bordon was momentarily transfixed.

He shook his head and snapped out of his trance. "We can't do this," he said again as his feet carried him close to her. "Don't you understand?"

And all too quickly, he was within an inch of that beautiful, naked body. "You have to leave," he murmured. His voice sounded a call of defeat, though it was low.

Betsy felt a bit of relief inside. She had captured the man after so many weeks; so many months. And she did it without saying a word. There could finally be an end to the two of them denying themselves of one another.

His head was hung low, and Betsy looked up, bringing her forehead to touch his. His eyes were closed as she brushed a soft kiss against his lips. With that, she tugged at his shirt, which was so warm with his body heat, and pulled it out of his breeches. She snaked her hands cautiously beneath the linen material and her fingers soon touched his firm belly.

He winced nearly imperceptibly, as if he was trying with all his strength to hide his reaction. In truth, her fingertips sent sparks cascading outward from his abdomen. Her lips grazed lightly over his again as her hands mapped and caressed his trunk. She smiled inwardly as the fingers of her right hand found the scar on his left chest from the wound she personally had dressed and sewn; the wound over which he initially tried to steal a kiss from her so many months ago.

The girl recalled that day in a flash across her mind, and she was instantly back in the parlor, him seated shirtless before her. Her cleaning and stitching his wound. And she realized now that that was the point in which something had awoken inside her; a woman had arisen inside her that day. And the remembrance of seeing him, chest bared to her that day and vulnerable, made her feel a pinch now between her legs that made her groan low, but enough for him to notice.

Both her hands dropped down a bit, resting only an instant on his muscled chest. Her fingers soon found his nipples, which were taut and erect. Her fingertips circled them tentatively, causing him to jerk and let out a breath. Her thumb pads brushed over the tips back and forth, which caused him to elicit a low moan of surrender.

He was falling in deeper, his heart and body wanting her to stay. Yet remnants of seemliness in his head reminded him that she had to go. His arms seemed to have a mind of their own as they slipped around her. His hands caressed her bare back softly, not cautiously but daring to be possessive of her body.

Slipping her hands out from under his shirt, Betsy brought them upwards where they came to rest on his strong forearms. She gave them a reassuring squeeze then smoothed her hands up his arms to his muscular biceps, her fingers playing there a moment, massaging them.

The young lady's forehead, still resting against the man's, left it to trail slow, burning kisses along his jaw line to his ear, seducing him even more. Hugh's prick was full and aching in his breeches as she kissed and sucked teasingly on his earlobe.

She murmured, "If you want me, Hugh, take me now."

"Yes!" he growled, low and raspy. Bordon pulled back from her to regard her swollen lips and lustful, hooded eyes, and knew she mirrored how he must look to her. He quickly—short of tearing—pulled his shirt up and over his head and threw it to the floor.

Betsy's lips moved under his chin to his neck. From there, she kissed her way down to his chest. Her mouth found his right nipple, still stiff and pointed, which she licked softly twice, then circled with her tongue. She smiled slightly when her actions produced a groan from her lover. Hungrily, she kissed a fierce, hot line across the slight valley of his well defined chest to possess his left nipple. She sucked gently, enjoying the salty taste of his chest and drowning in his musky scent.

Her suckling drove him insane, and he pushed her back from him, where he still marveled at what had transpired in only moments, after months of longing. There the two stood, face to face; he clad only in his breeches and her completely nude.

After a moment of him regarding her, he reached around behind her naked, petite curves to lock the door.

A lusty, hard erection yearning to be freed from the confines of his wool pants made him pull the girl to him, crushing her frame to his. His mouth claimed hers in a smoldering kiss filled with pent up lust. As he did, his hands explored her back, with one dropping to her small bottom.

Hugh's right hand caressed and cupped her bare ass, then slid down the back of her thigh, backup the side of it and over her hip, taking in the curves and lines and smoothness of her there. His fingertips glided down the front of her thigh, tickling it and making her release a ragged breath. And then the girl held her breath as those fingers trailed lightly up the inside of her leg, getting dangerously close to her femininity.

And when they were there, she gasped as his fingers dove softly into her sex, moving deftly over the folds, spreading her moisture about then parting the lips of her labia to slip a fingertip into her vagina. He needed to know if she was truly ready for him, and he was pleased to find her passage hot and wet. Hugh could hardly wait to plunge his fingers and prick into that tight, satin hole of hers.

With that, he picked the young lady up into his arms and carried her eagerly the few steps to his bed. There, he pulled the coverlet of the neatly made bed back with one hand as his strong arm cradled her body against him still. And then she released her arms from about his neck and slid softly, quietly down into his bed. She pulled the sheets up to cover herself modestly, but stayed sitting up, not wanting to lay back into his pillows.

Betsy watched Hugh when he sat down to take off his boots and stockings. And she thought that she should probably be innocent and virginal and avert her eyes as he pushed his breeches down his legs. But she couldn't; she needed to see him reveal his nudity.

And so she watched, and gawked while watching his stiff penis jerk and spring free from his pants. And then she couldn't stop looking at it—short of gaping. She had never seen an erect cock before except in the pictures in Fanny Hill, and she was awestruck. It stood out straight and strong from his body and was so large and rigid. Her eyes widened at the thought of wondering how something that large could fit into such a small hole. And when it had been in there before, it had hurt, and there was blood.

Captain Bordon lifted the covers of his bed and put his naked, muscular body in bed next to Miss Burwell, who continued holding the sheet up over her in modesty. That ended quickly when she let go of the coverlet to embrace the man as he took her in his arms.

He kissed her again slowly, pushing his tongue between her lips and into her mouth, where he gently coaxed hers into a dance with his. As that continued, slow and wet, he pushed her body down into the bed, where he snaked his left leg in between hers and let it rest there. His hand found its way to her loose, wavy hair and his fingers laced into her sandy locks.

His mouth left hers and outlined her jaw with feathery kisses, making its way to her ear, which he nibbled and breathed lightly on. "Oh..." she whimpered in pent up passion as he did.

Then she turned onto her left side, facing him equally as he was upon his right side. Bordon softly took her hand in his and placed it on his erection.

There, her fingers played lightly, up and down the length of it, exploring it. As it did, he closed his eyes and enjoyed her attentions, letting her fingers do as they pleased to acquaint her with his prick. She wanted to know its every ridge and curve and its very hardness fascinated her. She trailed her fingertips lightly up the underside of it, making him release a heavy breath that he held at her very touch. And at the tip of it, her fingers circled the fleshy, purpled head of it. The girl took her time exploring it as well, grazing her fingers back and forth across the circumference, pausing now and then with her index fingertip on the opening, which made him gasp.

The corona of his phallus was most sensitive and he nearly came after a prolonged session of her touches. "Ah..Betsy..," he breathed, or maybe begged, as his hand caught her wrist and stopped her. He placed her hand around his cock, and cupped his own hand over hers. He guided her fist down to the root, then back out slowly to the tip. Doing this twice, she soon learned what he wanted and another way to touch him.

The young lady's hand jacked him slowly, painfully slow, taking her time as sliding her fingers, which had a tight grip on his stiffness, down to the root and back out to the tip, and repeating.

She kissed him equally as slow, and he moaned into her mouth as she continued.

Her slow massage of his member soon picked up a little speed, and she had him purring under her touch. And then she fisted him a bit faster, his hand no longer with hers, watching his phallus as it seemed to turn even more violet as she stroked him.

And soon his hips rocked in time with her hand, his rhythm helping to propel his cock into her tight fist at his own speed. And soon, he felt the warmth working in his hips and across his ass, and he groaned low. Betsy was kissing and teasing his ear when he seized her hand and pulled it gently away from his rock hard manhood. "No...mustn't...I'm close," he choked out the words raggedly.

He had stopped himself just in time, preventing the escape of his stream of hot slick lust. As he panted, he pushed the girl onto her back and again slung his leg over hers. Betsy felt a drop of warm thick wetness on her thigh, a bit of Hugh's essence that had escaped during her sensual massage of his manhood. And his staff was still just as hard and aching, pressing into the skin of her leg.

After brushing a small kiss over his lips, her mouth trailed up his neck and to his ear, her lips open, leaving a warm trail of her saliva over his skin. She lingered at his ear, nibbling the lobe, letting her breath barely escape over it, sending tingles throughout his body.

The officer's left hand snaked slowly over her midsection, soon finding her right breast. He took his time caressing it, making low moans of lust from the girl blossom and fade in his ear, which her lips were still against. He pulled his head away from her and dropped to her chest, where his mouth kissed the skin around the nipple, carefully avoiding it, wanting to tease her a bit longer. The captain's left hand continued to fondle her right breast, plumping and smoothing over it, and brushing the nipple with his fingers tips. Hugh was pleased to feel it hardening beneath his fingers as he rolled it. His tongue snaked from between his lips, to barely taste her stiffened left nipple. His tongue circled it slowly a few times, then lapped lightly at the tip of it, making her close her eyes as her head dropped further into the pillow. She arched her back, trying to force the hardened rosebud into his mouth, but he didn't take the bait. He continued to provoke more lust from her, lapping over and around the stiffened peak.

"Ah..._Please_." Her words, pleading, made him smile inwardly that he was thoroughly bothering her. He knew what she wanted; discovering her feelings of need. His lips clamped onto the stiff point and sucked and pulled the nipple into his mouth.

"Oh...Oh..." she cried quietly. He continued to suck on the tip until it became too sore or too aroused. And when his suckling became too hard that her inexperienced nipples could no longer stand it, even though she loved his mouth on her there, she slid her fingers into his auburn locks and coaxed his head back to hers. She kissed his lips slowly, as his other hand, which was caressing her right breast, made an escape. It disappeared down over her belly, then across her triangle of sandy hair.

He urged her thighs apart slightly and let his fingers drop into her quim as they kissed. His digits moved slowly through her pussy, tracing the insides and outside of the fleshy folds. And as they moved back to the top, there, he found a hood of flesh where the hair of her Mons ended. The captain parted the folds with his index finger and found a tiny, hardened nub. His finger dove in gently to touch it slightly. When he did, her breath hitched and body jerked noticeably, so he knew he had found her center. He flicked the bundle of nerves lightly with the tip of his finger, and his lover shivered. Bordon kept on, moving his finger over it, back and forth, up and down.

Wanting to make sure she had at least an orgasm, since she was new to intercourse, and often the young inexperienced ones could not be brought to pleasure with only penile penetration, he went to work on her nubile clitoris. He put the pad of his index fingers against the sensitive bundle of nerves and began to manipulate it in a circle. His efforts were rewarded right away when the girl bucked her pelvis and gasped.

Hugh's movement, the touch and sudden pressure on this spot seemed to somehow answer the unspeakable yearning that she felt between her legs earlier, like a thirst that couldn't be quenched. Yet it was happening. She felt a bit of relief, and a bit charged up with every revolution around that hard little knot he made. The girl suddenly felt as if her body was taking on energy, and she so wanted to thrash against his fingers. But she forced herself to stay still and enjoy his invasion of her slick twat. Illicit and graphic illustrations from the book Fanny Hill flashed in her mind, and she felt the need to know and name what he was doing to her, because it had happened in the story.

His kisses moved over her flesh from lips to ears, as he whispered encouragement. "Let yourself go," he murmured as his finger rimmed her receptive, firm clit, which seemed to throb under it as if silently begging for more. The digit, not wavering in slowness and rhythm, caressed it dutifully, for what seemed like hours. And Betsy's hips wanted to move and her body wanted to burst. She closed her eyes and let his lips do all the kissing of her neck, as she forgot his mouth for a moment, concentrating on just breathing.

A curious warmth had spread very slowly from her womanly center, under his deft finger, out to infuse her pelvis. And she felt as if her mind may let her go insane as he increased the pressure of his finger pad against it. It was only slight, but enough to catch her breath to where she wanted to hold it, and she panted in gasps rather than breathe regularly. And the rhythm and speed he kept steady, massaging it slowly still; patiently.

And then all of a sudden, something in her broke. First her butt tightened, and then all the muscles of her legs did the same. Then that let go in a jolt and spasms mover through her whole body. As it did, she felt as if her limbs were on fire and that now, every cell of her body was sparking and alight! Bordon, who had stopped kissing her to watch the girl's face, smiled when he saw the familiar rigidness. He felt her quim moisten more, to near dripping, and saw her arch her back.

He looked over and saw her hand twisting, white knuckled, in the coverlet. Her left hand was gripping her own left thigh. "Oh!...OH!...Hugh!...," she cried as she trembled. He didn't stop massaging her engorged clitoris until her body had settled and she was gasping for air.

And though she knew what that was called as she had read it in Fanny Hill, she couldn't remember the name of it. Still panting for air, she whispered in Bordon's ear. "Ah...yes...oh... that was... my first."

"Yes," he said as she threaded her fingers into his wavy, red locks. The girl brought his face to hers, and she kissed him lovingly, thanking him for her introduction to the pleasures of the flesh.

"I needed to see to your pleasure," he murmured against her lips.

After a lingering kiss at her luscious lips, his head moved down again to her chest, again suckling leisurely at her nipples, teasing the girl. Her breasts were hard and aching and the sensations his mouth and hands created their made her stomach hitch.

And her body inexplicably, though tired and still getting her bearing after her first orgasm, seemed to come back to life. In fact, her loins were aflame and she felt the need to feel pleasure again. A feeling, a sort of a pinching in her novice cunt was created with every sharp suck of his lips on her stiff points. She knew the feeling was something only Hugh Bordon could soothe.

"Oh….. Oh….," She moaned, unable to stop herself.

"Yes my dear," he murmured, only lifting mouth enough from her chest to answer her. His hand rolled and pinched her hard little nipple.

"Oh….Oh Hugh….I…I need," she puffed in wanton gasps, unable to finish her words.

He lifted his head and answered her in his deep voice, warm as velvet, "I know what you need."

Her head lifted from the pillow to meet his in a grateful and relieved kiss. Betsy, so young and unknowing, was happy to have an experienced lover to take the reins and lead her through the act. She was equally glad, due to her shyness, that she didn't have to vocalize what she wanted. Truth be told, the young lady wasn't even sure what she wanted, she just felt a need within her budding and blooming body.

Their mouths took the time to kiss slowly. His tongue pushed between her soft lips and stroked her mouth equally as slow, soothing her yet inciting more passion in her.

The captain's left hand slid down and over her belly then over her thin patch of pubic hair. She didn't have quite enough there yet to fill out a silken triangle. His index finger parted her slickened labia and found her pearl, still glazed with her wetness and firm as a bean. He stroked it once with firm pressure which made her wince and jolt, her head raised from the pillow, face contorted in an alarming look at him. He could tell that she was still engorged and sensitive from him rubbing her to orgasm moments earlier.

Captain Bordon removed his hand from her moist womanhood and slid it to rest on the inside of her right thigh. With his fingers he caressed and massaged it gently and her breathing finally slowed to that of rest. He kept her calm yet stoked her passion at the same time as he made slow circles of his fingertips on her thigh, inching up her leg again, each revolution bringing his hand close to her femininity.

The officer moved his fingers back over quim, whisking them softly over the satin folds, barely touching. And after a moment of this, he pressed into her folds again. In the silky wetness, his digits danced, then searched, then teased, then danced again. Betsy wanted to scream in delight and frustration for he was proving just how he could hold himself back at the price of teasing her as if time mattered not.

His index finger divided her labia to slide slowly down to her hole, which he rimmed and caressed lightly, making her coo. Hugh pushed his finger up into her, so slowly, until he felt resistance. The he slipped it out as slowly, and replaced it with two digits, which he again inserted lazily to enjoy her tightness.

Feeling something akin to relief fan out over her body, Betsy shut her eyes and let her head sink deeply into the pillow. Just the feeling of his fingers resting, lingering inside her was a newfound joy. This little act of foreplay, of lovemaking—not assault, not a drunken fuck, but true intimacy—wrenched her soul. A serene smile tugged at the corners of her mouth in thinking that this was still far from the experience of what the full sexual act had to offer.

Betsy moaned, sounding as if she was near to breaking into tears when his fingers began plumbing steadily into and out of her womanly passage. Hugh raised his head and kissed the girl again, slow, languid, like the caressing of his fingers within her. They were so snug in her wetness, so much so that he could hardly wait to sink his cock into the tightness. He plunged his digits in and out of her, and after a moment of it, her hips were soon moving in cadence with his fingers.

At the urging of Betsy's hips, Bordon hastened his fingers. And as he did, the heel of his hand brushed occasionally against her pearl, still swollen and sensitive from his former attentions. Initially it was uncomfortable and made her flinch, but it soon passed and blossomed into that lovely feeling of heat and anticipation experienced only moments earlier.

Some time in the midst of his fingers lobbing in and out of her and the lovely heat it brought on, she was surprised to realize that her hips were moving in time with his hand. She had no idea who was urging who on in the sensual game. How long had she been doing this? Was she doing it of her own accord or had her body overruled her mind? How did this look to her captain? It stunned her, how brazen she was to move so licentiously. It overwhelmed her as well, how much she wanted his manhood in her. The whole thing confused her. Sure, she had wanted him to take her to his bed. Indeed, she wanted her body beneath his, but all this? All the feelings and emotion? The lurid and obscene thoughts in her mind and her movement? She was overcome. _My, God, I must look like a shameless wanton!_

And when all the notions passed and she came back to reality, she felt his fingers moving faster and deeper within her, fucking her firmly. And his palm, brushing over her hard little clit frequently, enough to tease but not enough to establish a rhythm, was driving her insane. She felt pressure building in her core. And her hips and pelvis, striding with him, luring him in.

Betsy moaned again when his lips captured her right nipple, clamping on and sucking hard. It was moving her near the edge. Her hands were hanging onto the sheets as if she was going to come off the bed. God, now her hips were bucking against his hand, urging his digits deeper and wanting to find that exquisite rubbing of his palm against her engorged bud.

The officer, still sucking aggressively at her breasts and inciting so much desire in her velvet pussy, was elated at how she, nearly a virgin, reacted to his touch. Maybe it was true, he thought; that she _had_ wanted him for months and now they lay naked together.

As he watched her, teased and suckled her, stoking her need and slaking it, his arousal had climbed to the pinnacle. His prick had become as hard as a cement stone, almost painful, weeping his essence.

He needed release.

At the same time he fingered her to near climax, he battled with himself. Bordon felt he could come at any moment—all over her thigh and himself, but he wanted to come when he was deeply buried in her. Not that he wanted to leave her with a child; he felt it a way to brand her; make her his.

He wanted to be the first to break her virtue; the first to give her an orgasm. Not Colonel George Rogers Clark. No. Captain Hugh Bordon. This was the second young lady he had done this to. His late wife, Sarah, had been but a weeping virgin as well.

Betsy soon felt that warmth again build quickly in her pelvis, surrounding her. She felt close…only a couple of strokes more. And in an instant, with his fingers inside her and the pressure of his hand against her nub, the dam broke inside her. Centered there in her clitoris, was that burst of hot little explosion that radiated out through her whole body, making her moan and whimper. It coursed through her body like lightning. She went rigid then arched her back. The spasms, so great as she thought it would bring her off the bed. Hugh fucked her through the climax until she grabbed his wrist to stop him. And now, after two orgasms, her pert little pearl, engorged and so slick with her cream, was too tender to be touched again.

Bordon lifted his head from her chest. His face met her flushed and exhausted one, and though her eyes were still closed, his burned with a haughty satisfaction at his ability to please her. The officer's mouth claimed hers again with a deep, needy kiss. His tongue pressed into her mouth, coaxing her tongue to move in tandem with his.

Betsy's mouth departed Hugh's and moved to his ear. "This isn't like the first time," she whispered in amazement at the foreplay that had taken place so far.

She smiled, but soon found her upturned lips eclipsed by his mouth, which captured hers again in a fervent kiss. And when the kiss ended, he took her delicate hand and smoothed his lips over the back of it, making a chill run quickly through her body. He turned it over and kissed the palm, then placed her hand on his stiffened manhood.

Once again, her curious hand wandered over his cock, her fingertips flitting up and down, and to the underside, as if wondrously measuring it. And when he could no longer take her feathery touch, he firmly cupped his hand over hers and urged her fist around his hardness, holding it there tightly for a moment.

Betsy slid her hand up and down his hardened shaft, from root to tip. Slowly and patiently she fisted his erection, watching his eyes close and his head drop back onto his pillow. "Oh yes….that's it, darling," he sighed. "Don't stop."

She continued on steadily for a moment, then increased her pace. She was intrigued as she watched his body react to her touch, his abdominal muscles contracting and his chest rising and falling with erratic puffs of breath.

Just moments after begging her not to stop, he put an end to her jacking him with a firm grip of her wrist. Her eyes locked with his and she licked her lips as he climbed over her right leg and then kneed her thighs further apart. The officer centered himself between her legs then moved his hand slowly down between their bodies. He gripped his shaft to guide himself to her. She flinched a bit when the head of it touched her, though she instinctively spread her legs a bit wider.

Bordon pushed his cock into her slowly, just enough to cover the purpled corona, an inch or so inside her.

"Oh!" she winced, her body tensing as she did. She recalled the first invasion by him, and how it stretched her, and then the Colonel's rape and how he just forced himself into her.

The captain, who was holding himself above her by his arms, leaned down to her ear. "Betsy..

Shhhh," he whispered then tenderly kissed her cheek.

The girl let a pent up breath go, trying to calm her panic. She looked up into his eyes, pleading, "Gently…slow."

"Of course," he rasped. And with a simple and slow nudge, his penis penetrated her creamy, swollen membranes. Now unheeded her walls welcomed his firmness in, surrounding him snugly, making him grunt.

Captain Bordon, who had been holding himself back with supreme patience, pressed his prick in until her felt the back of her. "Ah….God," he swore under his breath, relieved to have his swollen and weeping cock buried to the hilt within Miss Burwell. Her velvet walls enveloped him, holding him there as if he were a natural part of her. Indeed the constriction was nearly too much for him and he wanted to come now. The officer, used to having to exercise discipline in different situations, held himself back, staying still within the young lady lest he spend himself right then.

He took deep breaths with his eyes closed while rooted within her, wanting to stave off his climax. Betsy was overcome with how gentle and tender the act was; how he had treated her as if she was fine china, so delicately. As she lay there with him between her thighs, the tears of emotion and discomfort that she had stoically held back, began to flow. She felt so warm and full and stretched and wondrous.

Hugh opened his eyes and saw her wet cheeks. Though he felt disappointed, the gentleman in him, though he needed his own release, trumped the physical feelings. He kissed her gently then murmured, "Perhaps this was too much. We can stop."

Her tearful eyes widened. "No. Please," she beseeched. "I've wanted to feel this with you for so long. I just….you are so large and I am not used to it."

Captain Bordon settled himself, staying between her legs, and listened to the girl. "It's just that...to me..._this….now…_ feels like our true first time. You have no memory of that night, and you only stroked in me a few times before you fainted drunk atop me."

He smiled and kissed her temple. "On the contrary," he murmured, "I've wanted you so badly and for so long that I am near to fainting _now_," Bordon admitted.

"You will not this time," the girl quipped as she threaded her fingers into his strawberry tresses.

"Yes," he agreed. "I need to complete the act this time….for both our sakes! If I was more of a man, I could take you all night. But as it is, I'm like a school boy with no self discipline. Believe me, you are so lovely and I am so aroused for you that it is taking a Herculean effort to hold myself back."

He looked at her and loved her youth and truth and innocence, which was so much of the attraction. Bordon could no longer resist it. He leaned down and stole a chaste kiss from her mouth, then trailed kisses along her jaw, ending at her ear. He whispered as he nuzzled and nibbled her earlobe. "Keep talking. I'm listening though I'm occupied."

Betsy giggled at his words and at the tickle of his breath on her ear. "Mmmm," she murmured as she closed her eyes. "And when the colonel...raped me...it was rough and thankfully, over with quickly."

The officer pulled back from her and looked with seriousness into her eyes which were filled with temporary fear from her memory of that dreadful night. "You will never have to feel him inside you again," Bordon swore. "I've told you that there is only so far I can protect you as his adjutant, but now, a line must be drawn. You and I….you are….you're mine now, and I will not let him invade you. I vow it."

"Oh, Hugh," she sobbed and pulled him against her body, her arms holding on to him as if for dear life. She pushed back a bit from the embrace to find his mouth, and kissed him long and lovingly.

When their lips parted, he spoke low and sweetly to her again. "What else concerns you?"

She felt a flush of pink move into her cheeks, suddenly feeling shy. The girl said nothing, closing her eyes. Captain Bordon nuzzled her neck again, knowing she was young and bashful. "Come now, tell me," he coaxed, his breath against her ear.

"I didn't know that our coupling would last this long," she confessed bashfully.

"There is no reason why you should be surprised," he teased low, "You are the one who read Fanny Hill."

She chuckled. "That book—"

"Filth," he interjected, muttering as he nipped at her neck.

"That 'filth' seems to haunt me," she answered.

"You've admitted as much before," he replied playfully.

And then there was a silent moment after their teasing when they looked into each other's eyes again.

The young lady, still feeling her quim bulging with him, and wondering if she could ever take him wholly, felt as if she might burst. But his patience, his stillness within here for just a few moments allowed her to adjust to his girth. She closed her eyes and reveled in the magnificent feeling of his largeness so hard inside her, and wanted to feel more.

She kissed him and whispered, "I'm ready now." Betsy kissed him again, sliding her tongue into his mouth to caress his. As she did, she moved her pelvis sensually. And as he lay snug in the cradle of her hips, her movements spurred him to begin moving again.

Remembering his promise to be gentle, Bordon pulled his thick column of flesh out to where just the tip remained inside her, making her whimper in protest.

"Shh….Betsy," he soothed. He had the sweet but monumental task of fucking the girl softly and slowly. The dragoon had to rein himself in and stroke with caution and control instead of abandon. The captain had screwed his doxies the last year with the wildness of a bucking stallion, much to their collective happiness, for he paid well and was very well endowed. But for now, Hugh pushed his length back into her cream oh so slowly, and when he was buried again inside her to the hilt, they both moaned airily together.

Bordon's supremely controlled hips soon set a lazy rhythm of long, easy strokes. Betsy's pelvis swayed calmly in time with his, and a languid warmth began to grow in her core.

The girl's arms, which had been wrapped securely around her captain's shoulders, loosened their hold on him. Her hands slid in a shy and tentative manner down his back.

After resting in the small of his back for a moment, she bravely slid her fingertips onto his muscular ass, tracing over each half moon, the grazing of her fingers against his skin making him shiver. Then her hands squeezed and cupped each side of his rear, and she was in wonder that his buttocks felt as steely as his chest.

Soon, while he continued to thrust deep and slow, she kneaded the flesh of his rear, and her caresses made him hiss aloud as the need for release grew quickly. The officer knew he wouldn't last much longer. Still atop her supported on his elbows, he slid his hands beneath her body. When he found her buttocks, he cupped the softness there and pulled her body snugly to his. He pressed his pelvis hard against hers to make sure and rub firmly against her clit to ease her toward orgasm during his impending climax. He held onto his patience, though so anxious to come, and continued to plumb her long and steadily.

Not long after that, Betsy felt the warmth and tingling that seemed to bubble and fizz up in her pelvis, and then a small explosion spilled out of her center and spread as if it were a spilled glass of warm milk. It was the most unique feeling. It seemed to unfurl, then roll lazily like an ocean wave, slowly over her and through her body. She felt encapsulated in sparks.

"Oh….oh….oh!...Hugh!" she groaned and purred as her arms tightened around his stiffened body, melding to him, wanting to hold him there forever. She trembled hard then and held fast to him.

Indeed her tightness, which gripped his cock like a warm velvet glove, throbbed and constricted around him. That lovely tingling began in his balls and rose quickly into his rock hard erection. And her sensual cries only heightened him to the brink.

In an instant, a tightly coiled spring uncoiled within him and shot pleasure though him like a bolt or energy. His body shook as his seed shot forcefully into her moist depths. His prick convulsed and throbbed, pumping every last drop of his essence into her.

"Ah….God!" he grunted as he came, his orgasm so forceful as it nearly hurt when he drained his semen.

When he came down from his high, he opened his eyes and looked at Betsy lying below him, breathless and weeping softly. "Betsy," he murmured as his thumb traced over her swollen bottom lip. The fingers of his other hand wiped the tear from her cheek.

"I never knew," she wept, "that it would feel like this…that I could feel so close to a man."

He studied the girl as she collected herself from her tears. Bordon kissed her forehead softly. The captain now knew _just how_ vulnerable the young lady was. He would now have to take care not to hurt her. How could he keep her safe from emotions, he wondered, for his own feelings for her he still could not find words for. But those indefinable emotions had taken root deeply inside him over these past months.

"We shouldn't do this," the officer murmured against her cheek. "I know better. But I can't help how I feel."

"I want to be with you," Betsy confessed.

"And I want to be with you," Hugh affirmed. "I care for you. I have to be near you. I want you in my arms."

"And I want you to hold me," she answered.

Captain Bordon softly withdrew his flaccid penis from her, then rolled off her to be beside her in bed. He pulled her youthful but spent body to his, holding her close and secure. He kissed the side of her head in her hair, breathing in a hint of citrus in the strands.

"Betsy," he began, "if we are going to be with each other, then it must be in secret."

She nodded her head in silent agreement. But inside, she hurt for she longed for a traditional courtship; one with a man who met her father's approval. The girl knew that for as long as this war raged, that a British officer, even one from good society and family wealth, would not receive Colonel Burwell's blessing to court his daughter.

Betsy Burwell loved Hugh Bordon, and would be with him however she could have him.

The couple looked at each other and smiled. Both knew that having a clandestine relationship was the only way this would work, and silently agreed to it. They kissed to seal their agreement of discretion. And then she curled against him, happy, and relieved after all these months, to finally be in his arms.

"Stay with me tonight," he requested softly. "I'm used to rising early, so I'll wake you in time for you to return to your room."

"Yes," she agreed in a whisper. But what she really wanted to do was tell him again how much she loved him and felt for him. She had blurted that out earlier and could see in his startled eyes that he either wasn't ready to hear it or to say it back to her yet. So she swallowed her wish to declare her love again.

Betsy closed her eyes and consoled herself, thinking there would be time enough later for mutual declarations of love. She fell asleep in the safe circle of his arms.


	36. Chapter 35: Snap Decision

**Author's note: Hi readers. Yes, I have heard you about updates. Again let me apologize for not posting in 4 months or so. I had a full plate with family issues thru the winter and holidays. **

**I am glad you have stayed with the story and have been enjoying it. Thanks for requesting updates-you're all very kind and I am so flattered! I can't guarantee that I will be any more timely with them...real life likes to keep me busy.**

**So, let me warn you. This may not be quality writing here. I put myself under pressure to get something posted because I wanted to show that I haven't abandoned the story and haven't lost interest in it. There is still so much more I have planned for it...I would say that it is only about half way done. I am not a good "deadline" writer and feel I do better work when I can just write and put it out there whenever. And I'd rather put a good product out anyway. So, there is your warning that this chapter may not be up to par. As usual, I'll be back over it proofreading it in the next few days.**

**Also, I hope you all tune into the AMC channel to watch the Revolutionary War drama series _"Turn: Washington's Spies"_ on Monday, April 13 at 9pm! Help bring it back for a third season! I hope you all got to see the recent Revolutionary War drama miniseries _"Sons Of Liberty"_ on the History channel back in January! It was great! **

**Thanks**

**JScorpio**

Chapter 35: Snap Decision

Betsy's stomach burbled at the sound of the chairs scraping on the wooden floor of the dining room. She gave a scant, sidelong glance at the officers as they departed after breakfast, glad they were leaving for it left her nearly alone—except for another. She stole a quick look up from her plate at Captain Bordon, sitting across from her. Both had eaten slowly, savoring their food and their presence with one another, although amongst a table full of redcoats. She said nothing and smiled slyly to herself as she looked down again and finished the last of her food.

Bordon was quiet as he finished his food. The two looked up at the same time, catching one another's eye. A knowing, yet secret look passed between them.

Miss Burwell couldn't explain why she became silent in casual meetings with the captain. _For God sakes, she thought. She could take her clothes off before him and let him between her legs with no hesitation or protest. She could murmur sweet nothings to him as he lay atop her. She could moan appreciatively while he brought her to orgasm. _All this, yet she became tongue tied in simple circumstances with him. It was astounding.

Perhaps she was afraid of giving away their secret affair. She just couldn't seem to put her finger on it.

Indeed the couple had been carrying on their clandestine romance for nearly a month. They made love in either of their chambers on nights that he was home. Kisses were stolen quickly and cautiously beyond the eyes of those around them. They embraced in dark corners and empty rooms. As well, the two had nearly been close a couple of times—too close—to being discovered. Though that scared the lovers, it didn't deter them from their elicit activity either.

Still, to the girl's dismay, Hugh had not whispered the words she longed to hear: I love you. If only she could know that he felt that way, for if she did, she vowed to find a way to break off her engagement to George. Then, she could marry Bordon, the man she truly loved. Betsy wanted to make him a good wife, bear him children and ease his quiet, but still lingering grief over Sarah's death.

The young lady had revealed her feelings to him days ago, and she knew he remembered. And she resolved not to utter the words again until he spoke them to her. He needed time, she thought, to sort his emotions out. She was willing to give him that much.

As they gazed at each other, the captain raised his glass and grinned as he quietly toasted her. Betsy looked down bashfully as a slow burn crept over her skin, making her cheeks rosy as with a blush. Hugh stifled a laugh at her as the maid Polly breezed into the room.

"Would either of you like tea?" she said as she gathered some of the plates. Both of them nodded 'no'. As the servant continued picking up the meal dishes, she addressed Betsy.

"We're making an apricot and berry compote for this evening," the young girl informed.

"Oh, very good," Betsy acknowledged with a nervous smile.

Soon the servant's arms were full of dishes. Betsy and Hugh watched anxiously as she headed out of the room and across the breezeway.

After another moment of quiet, Miss Burwell asked a curious and cryptic question. "Why me?"

The redcoat officer was puzzled. Perplexed, he answered back with a question. "What do you mean?"

"You are from one of the wealthiest families in England, so I have heard," Betsy began as she rose from the table. "You don't have a woman back home?"

The young lady walked to the end of the table, where she picked up the sugar bowl. "The fathers back in England must be knocking each other over to make matches of their daughters with you."

She placed the bowl back into the corner cabinet. As she did she trembled with anticipation as she heard the captain's chair scoot backward. She kept her focus on the fine porcelain in the cupboard before her as she heard Hugh's footsteps nearing.

"I am sure that our family is lower in society than the Bordons are," she remarked. She turned to find him at the end of the table, the salt and pepper shaker in his hand. "I'm just some country girl on some farm in the middle of the colonies."

"I grew up on an estate in the English countryside," he said as he handed her the china accoutrements. She put them in the cabinet as he continued his answer. The girl blushed and tensed as she felt his fingertips on her waist. "Why shouldn't I be drawn to a country girl?"

He was so close to her now, near enough that she felt his breath on the back of her neck. Her cheeks went from pink to red as she blushed. His hands gave a light but noticeable squeeze on her middle.

"You're congenial," whispered Hugh as he placed a light kiss on her neck, "And a beauty."

His lips grazed her skin again, making her shiver. Then he kissed the shell of her ear when he murmured, "I like you. I pine for your company. I can't help myself."

Betsy pulled away from him and turned to face the man. Her hands gripped the edge of the pie shelf as she felt her knees weaken. She stared at him with a starry eyed expression at the sweetness of his words and the warmth in his voice. She knew he was sincere.

"I care for you, Betsy," he declared in a soft, lovelorn voice as he gazed down at her. "So very much."

The two were lucky that a servant did not enter the room at that moment. Their actions and looks were clear enough to give themselves away to some stranger on the road.

"Join me in the south parlor," Captain Bordon whispered. She nodded her head. Her eyes followed him as he left the room and went into the main house.

The girl took in a breath and closed her eyes as she let it out. As usual, to be in his presence in anyway caused her stomach to flutter. After giving him a moment's head start, she too left the dining hall to find him. She fought herself to keep her pace to a languid walk through the house lest a purposeful trot cast suspicion upon her.

As Betsy crossed the threshold of the parlor, Bordon's warm hand caught hers. He tugged her over against the wall behind the door. She gasped as he did but did not hesitate to throw her arms around his broad shoulders. The officer smiled down at her as he slipped his arms around her waist and walked her backwards into the wall. With her body pinioned willingly against it, Hugh pushed his body to hers, holding her close.

The captain lowered his head and put his lips to hers, capturing them in a hot, demanding kiss. His tongue slid into her mouth and met hers without hesitation. They rolled and dueled hastily, then slowed the pace. For the next moment, they kissed leisurely, savoring each other's lips.

Hugh pulled away and gazed down at the girl. "A kiss goodbye, before patrol."

Her fingers toyed with his lapels. "I'll miss seeing you today."

"As I will you," he declared. He dropped his head to kiss her right hand, which stilled smoothed at his jacket folds. His mouth moved to her ear, whispering a secret only for her to hear. "Even though we cannot act openly upon our feelings, my eyes appreciate seeing a lovely sight."

She blushed, then embraced him and rested her head against his chest. Betsy wanted to tell him to be safe. She didn't want to let go of him, but knew she had to. "Thank you," she murmured to his compliment.

"I'll see you tonight," he assured with a smile. "Off to your chores."

Betsy giggled when Bordon gave her a playful slap to her bottom as she left the room. The young girl seemed to float, her feelings somehow carrying her, out of the house. The reverie was over though, when she seated herself behind the butter churn outside the kitchen building.

As Captain Bordon's detachment rode out, the quick nod and glance that Hugh gave her didn't escape her. Miss Burwell tried not to look for too long—or_ too_ _longingly_—at the officer as he left. She forced her eyes down again, pretending to concentrate on the mixing the cream. She couldn't help but steal another glimpse, and by this time it was she the lane curved and took him out of sight.

Minutes after he was gone, she worked away mindlessly churning the butter, paying no heed to whether the substance within thinned or thickened. Betsy's mind was occupied with thoughts of Hugh. She pictured him naked and glorious, then she envisioned them linked physically, his stone hard cock buried in her youthful wetness. She closed her eyes and could feel him stroking within her slowly and smoothly, making her moan and gasp.

Mrs. Leyanova shouting at the slaves tore her from her pleasant thoughts. The girl looked about and reddened, having that feeling that all around her could read her mind; she was damn glad they couldn't.

Miss Burwell couldn't figure her feelings out. Captain Bordon was a strange addiction. Betsy needed to be near him; hear his deep voice; kiss his lips; feel his arms around her; lay next to him. Her teenaged infatuation of him had turned him into a Greek God which she adored on a pedestal. She worshipped him and saw no fault. Since he was near mythical to her, he would not be hurt. She knew he would return to her. The few battle scars upon his body that her fingertips raked over had not made their way onto the imaginary marble statue her mind had formed of him.

She had sewn his chest wound and tended his venom filled body of recent months, but none of that reality sullied her image of him. Captain Bordon was perfection. He would never die, and therefore be alive at the end of this Godforsaken war. He would be a war hero for His Majesty and return decorated with gaudy medals by the monarch himself!

_No, she thought. Not Hugh. He will be safe. I will see him in glory!_

*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*

Betsy couldn't breathe! She was startled awake, trying to catch her breath. Something was smothering her. Someone's hand. She knew it wasn't Hugh Bordon's.

"Shhhh. Be still, Miss Burwell," a voice said. A young man's. Vaguely familiar. The girl sat up, not knowing what to do or if to scream. In confusion, she looked at the shadow at the side of her bed rise to full height.

The silhouette was that of a young man. A boy, perhaps. She stayed silent and still as she tried to place the voice.

"It is Johnny….Johnny Lander….from town," he informed in a low voice.

The girl was stunned that one of the village sons was in her house. In her bedroom. In the middle of the night. She worried if Hugh was home or not as she sat up, pulling the coverlet up to cover her.

"Why are you in my house?" she asked her voice bordering irritation. _Where is Hugh, she wondered again. Why isn't HE in here?_

"I joined up!" he announced proudly, but softly, making no attempt to get up from his kneeling position beside the girl's bed. "After I saw them lobsters beat you, I enlisted. I serve under your father."

"My father?!" she exclaimed, trying to keep her voice down. Her heart soared and she wanted to scream. Betsy sat forward and squinted to see the Lander boy's face in the shadows. "How is he? Is he here?"

"No. He is in our camp, but I can't tell you where that is," the young man answered. "He is loyal to the men and committed to the cause."

"Yes," Betsy murmured painfully as she relaxed a bit. His commitment to the rebel effort had caused heartache, which Harry Burwell made no apology for. His daughter remembered how he lectured her and her late brother Stephen and the family servants that sacrifice during a war would eventually be known by all. Betsy had certainly felt and lived the loss every day.

The lanky teen aged boy stood. "I _can_ tell you that I am here to take you to him."

"What?!" Miss Burwell exclaimed, nearly bolting out of her bed. Confusion washed over her. _How could this be? Maybe she hadn't heard him right._

"What? I don't understand?" the girl stammered.

"The general chose me to come on this mission because I know this area well," Lander informed. He told her that he and three other handpicked men had stolen onto the farm with the sole purpose to collect Betsy. They would sneak her off the farm and to the safety of Burwell's rebel camp. Once there, Harry planned to move her quickly to a safe house.

General Burwell had stewed over his daughter's capture by the British for months. Finally he had been able to arrange a plan to spirit her away from the enemy and bring her to protection sanctioned by him. Tonight, now, was that time.

Betsy was completely bowled over by the suddenness of all this. Still half speechless, she finally pulled herself out of her covers and groped in the dark for her robe which she knew to be laying on the floor somewhere near her bed. Her fingers hit the familiar material of it, jerked it up and pulled it on as she rose from the bed.

"Oh dear, I'll have to pack fast," she muttered, still in confusion, to herself.

"No," the Lander boy said as he grabbed her wrist. "We have to be able to travel light and fast."

"I have to at least get dressed," the girl protested.

"No, miss," answered Johnny. "We have clothes for you for the journey with us, and your father has arranged more clothing for you in camp."

"Certainly," she replied, a little distressed. She surely didn't want to be traversing the countryside in her night gown and robe with nothing but a very small band of ragtag soldiers. It seemed that she had no choice. But that wasn't all that dismayed the young woman.

"Please, Mr. Lander," she begged, "Could you leave me a moment alone. I have to relieve myself."

"Yes, Miss Burwell, but please hurry," he bade. "I'll hide myself downstairs."

"I'll be there soon," she promised as she disappeared behind the privacy screen to where her chamber pot sat.

The young lady had lied. She didn't need to relieve nature. She only needed to relieve her emotions.

The minute she heard the door click shut her head began to spin. She wanted to see her father, but things had changed recently. Betsy was in love. She didn't want to leave Hugh. The girl was in a quandary, hesitating at the choice before her.

She knew that time was of the essence, and she had to settle her mind down enough to be able to make some fast and wise decisions. The girl forced herself to calm by taking two big breaths and letting them out slowly.

Before she could even think, she gazed out the window over the yard full of canvas tents. Miss Burwell saw the picket walking the wood line. Then the laughter of a whore, who was draped over the arm of a drunken soldier, caught her attention and she watched the couple toddle drunkenly across the yard toward some tents. _How did papa's men get in here and how are we ever to get out without being seen?_

As she pondered that question, the answer was before her. The truth was that the stealthy little band of rebels had made it in. She would have to trust that they had a plan just as good to get away.

The young lady was near tears. Men were here to take her to her father, who she hadn't seen in over a year. Though he had managed to steal into her room when she was so sick with Malaria, that had been the initial plan: to take her then, but she was too sick to travel. And now, Harry Burwell was making a second attempt to collect his daughter. How could she not go?

But that meant she had to leave home…and Hugh Bordon. She would be going now, without the chance to say good bye; to see him a last time not knowing when she they would be together again; to explain things to him.

She briefly thought about leaving a note for her lover. It would have to be written quickly and in the dark. But if she did that, her father's men would be found out and possibly caught if not enough distance was put between the rebels and the farm. Betsy did not want her father's efforts wasted.

The young woman felt that the was making a choice between two men that she loved. She was also deciding between situations. She could stay here with Hugh, carrying on secretly with him and living relatively comfortably in her house under redcoat scrutiny. Or she went to her father, lived with him in his camp, or he packed her off to a safe house. She would be alone there, the war would end, George would eventually come home and she would be made to marry him.

_God no, she thought. I love Hugh. I want to be with him._

A lot had happened since she had last seen her father. The gazettes reported stories of George Rogers Clark's heroism, but they also reported on how popular he was with the females in the Northwest territory. There were also the rumors of his drinking and that he was near bankruptcy.

_Had Papa read or heard all this? How could he let her marry a man like that?_

Harry had no idea of his daughter's feelings for Captain Bordon. Betsy knew this because no one knew they were having an affair. But if she went to her father now, she could tell him about the Captain. She could tell Harry that Hugh was from one of the wealthiest families in England, and high ranking in society. She could explain that they loved each other. _Perhaps Papa will break the engagement to George, given his actions of late. Maybe he will give consent for Hugh and I to court outright?_

_I can send word back to Hugh of where I am, and that I am safe. I know Hugh….he would come after me. He will ride in under a white flag and request to see me. He and father could speak at that time. They will settle everything and I will no longer be a British prisoner. _

Betsy decided that to go to her father now was the right thing. She knew she would see Bordon again soon enough and she could explain why she left then—if he hadn't already found out through his intelligence sources. The girl knew he would understand when they were reunited.

She tied the belt of her robe into a tight knot as she walked toward the door. Then she slipped quietly into the hallway, and her heart panged as she stared at the closed door of Captain Bordon's quarters. The girl closed her eyes and swallowed hard, then hurried quietly down the hallway and the steps to the first floor.

Johnny heard her quick steps descending the stairway and he met her at the landing. After a quick and very quiet introduction to Lander's companion, Private Robson, the three exited the back of the house.

Once outside, the trio slinked around the edge of the building making their way to the Southwest corner. The tiny group fell back into the shadows just in time to avoid the residence sentry. As they paused in the dark, Betsy's hand rested upon the wood siding of the domicile. It was cool and rough, and she realized that this may be the last time that she would see her home for awhile.

This moment of hiding nearly made the girl sick to her stomach as she second guessed herself, wondering if she had made the right decision. She assumed that Hugh would be angry, confused and hurt that she had left without a word to him. Miss Burwell could only hope that she could make him understand later and put things right with him.

"Make ready, miss," Lander whispered. His words made her pull away from the thoughts that weighed her down. When the picket soldier moved on, the trio moved stealthily across the lawn from buildings to garden to bush to copse of small trees, using the darkness as a shield. Once at the tree line, they met up with two more men called Mathews and Grover. From there, the small band blended into the foliage.

Betsy, at the back of the small line of soldiers, stopped and gazed back at the house. "Hugh. Papa," she murmured. That was her last glimpse of the house as Johnny's hand grasped her wrist and pulled her along further into the woods.


End file.
